


The Lizard King

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fury, Politics, Unbeta'd, Winter Kingdom AU, war against the conquest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: The North, Vale, and Trident came together as one country during Aegon’s Conquest and have been fighting off the Targaryen Conquest for three centuries. Sansa is the long-suffering princess/chancellor of the Winter Kingdom (or “Dauphin” as the position is called) whose life is turned upside down when her inexperienced brother arranges for her to marry the man responsible for their father’s death: the newly crowned Jon I Targaryen, King of the Iron Throne.





	1. Long Live Queen Arya

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonsasnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonsasnow/gifts).



> For Jonsasnow!

Sansa used to hide her tears, weep daintily into her pillow to muffle her sobs. She is an Arryn Stark of Winterfell, after all. A Princess of Winter. Later, the Dauphin. She was taught from a young age that it was her duty to show strength, to never elicit sympathy, not to make her sorrows visible to their people. The men and women of the Winter Kingdom are strong and proud. And they have persevered through centuries of war with the dragons because of the example their royalty has always set.

_Winter is Coming. Wintermen do not whimper. Wolves only howl._

_Don’t get scared, get angry._

And she’s always, always adhered to this. Even when Father fell in battle to one of the Targaryen princes. At his memorial, her usually-fierce and wild sister descended into sobs. But Sansa put on her mask. One not of simple sorrow, but of anger. She kept her head held high and her eyes flashing as her brother loudly swore revenge upon House Targaryen for their latest crime. She played her part of the furious wolf, glaring at the fates themselves and waited until the ceremony was over and she could runs to her room and soak her pillows with her tears.

And when her pillows no longer sufficed, she had Domeric’s warm embrace. She had the sound of him singing and playing his harp.

Now she doesn’t have Domeric’s warm embrace, or his song. She’ll never have that again.

So, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t muffle it. She cries loud and hard, so all of Winterfell might hear.

She’s not whimpering, she’s howling. Wolves howl. They’re known for it. Everyone, everyone shall bear witness to her anger. And Robb… Robb will know. Robb will hear it. And he will know that everyone else does as well. Everyone will hear the anguish that the Young Wolf has caused their Dauphin.

When he, after a year as king, announced his intentions to forge peace with the Dragons and marry their Princess Rhaenys, she begrudgingly supported him. The act confused her, certainly. Robb had hardly been losing the war. Quite the opposite; he won every battle. Even before he took the throne, he was known as a tactical prodigy. ‘The Young Wolf.’ And off the battlefield, things were going as well as they possibly could.

They’d been at war with the Targaryens on and off since the first of those lizards, King Aegon the Monster landed and demanded that all of Westeros kneel to him or burn. Valyrian freaks, cruel, merciless, and ruthless. Cast-offs from a fallen empire built upon conquest, slavery, and flame seeking to rebuild that sick legacy in the West. House Targaryen, immolating countless innocents. Not just monstrous dragon-wise, either. King Aegon and his progeny not only took multiple wives, but they married their sisters. They believed themselves of a higher breed, more than men, practically gods, and The Monster waged a merciless campaign on the kingdoms of Westeros. Argella Durrandon, the rightful Storm Queen, was dragged, naked and bleeding, from her castle and raped by The Monster’s bastard brother. Entire swaths of the Reach went up in flames.

The Ironborn were driven out of the lands surrounding the Trident when the dragons destroyed Iron King Harren the Black’s palace. The Ironborn were invaders like the Targaryens, and pirates who terrorized the Andal population of the Trident, so no one mourned the cruel king, but they did mourn the horrific loss of life that came with it.

But even as that happened, the Dornish managed to stand against the Targaryens. The brave Princess Meria Nymeros Martell of the Dorne, though old and withered, stood against the Targaryens, and her people managed to kill one of The Monster’s sister-wives AND her dragon. It was an inspiration on the other end of the continent. The Riverlanders of the Trident had no interest in trading one set of invaders for another. And her ancestors — King Torrhen Stark and Queen Sharra Arryn joined together, marrying Sharra’s son Ronnel to Torrhen’s daughter Lyarra, to form the royal House of Arryn Stark and build a new kingdom with the Riverlanders to stand against The Monster and his lizards.

And they did. They repelled the Monster and his lizards. But monsters never know how to quit. So wars of would-be conquest have been starting and stopping constantly over the last three hundred years. So constant was the struggle that even in periods of supposed “peace” (or, as their kingdom call it, ‘waiting’) the ruling king (or, in some cases, queen) would be expected to be on some manner of war campaign. The role of the monarch was to protect their borders. To win battles and kill dragons in war and to prepare for battle by waiting. The consistency was what kept them intact.

Not that other matters of governance went neglected — not at all. It just isn’t supposed to be the king (or queen’s) business. Matters like trade, infrastructure, diplomacy, law, and citizen’s welfare was the role of the king (or queen’s) eldest sibling, the Dauphin. The king (or queen) was the realm’s head, armor, and sword. The Dauphin it’s brain, heart, and lungs.

And it worked. Granted, there were complications, in occurances of inconvenient deaths, a lack of viable candidates, or when someone decided to upset the balance. For instance, Sansa’s grandfather, King Rickard III, had no siblings, so his cousin and future queen Lyarra was trained to serve as both consort and Dauphin.

Sansa’s own father, Eddard, was the second-eldest, and became Dauphin of Winter upon his mother’s death, intended to continue to serve when his older brother, Brandon, became king.

Then, during a waiting period, King Rickard got the bright idea to try and make for a lasting piece with House Targaryen by making them guests at a grand tourney. Among the competitors was the son and heir of King Aerys ‘The Mad’ (a style Sansa always found amusing, since he was a Targaryen. How could anyone even tell?), Prince Rhaegar and Sansa’s aunt, Princess Lyanna. Rhaegar, who was married, won, and made Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty over his wife, the Dornish Princess Elia. A seemingly grand diplomatic gesture… up until Rhaegar decided to abduct and rape Lyanna.

King Rickard and Crown Prince Brandon, in their capacity as king and king-in-waiting, actually tried to settle things “diplomatically” by appealing to King Aerys instead of shoving a hot poker up his arse like they should have. For their trouble, they were both burned alive. Suddenly, Sansa’s Father was king, and his only sibling left, Uncle Benjen, was only thirteen and completely untrained for the role.

Her father’s killer, Jon Targaryen, was the result of this rape.

That war with the Targaryens has been ongoing ever since. One of the longest official, sustained conflicts in three centuries, all because their grandfather got stupid ideas about rubbing elbows with incestuous freaks.

It was so stupid, too. The Targaryens’ actual dragons, once a collective of mighty beasts, had died out. There was no reason to appease them.

Despite this, this conflict has lasted, in part, because Father, while trained as a warrior —- all Dauphins are, just in case — and not a bad one, went so long without a proper Dauphin. It took ten years for Uncle Benjen to really come into the role properly. While normally a long summer would have been a blessing, without that key part of the dynamic, a Dauphin to manage the bounty, it was less so. One of the major advantages Winter had over the lizards was that they simply couldn’t tolerate their chilly climate for too long — something that was no longer an issue in a summer that had lasted a decade.

But things were finally getting back on track. Unwilling to let his kingdom suffer this issue all over again, Father had been very careful in how he raised his children. And it worked. Robb was an ideal king-to-be, with all the fire and spirit of a warrior, a mind for tactics, and the sort of prodigious strain of charisma perfect for convincing men to ride screaming towards a fire-breathing monster. Sansa, meanwhile, excelled both socially and academically. She had the sort of prodigious strain of charisma perfect for convincing men to settle furious disputes, concede advantageous trade conditions, and spend hours going over the dullest of bureaucratic activities. She had a blind spot when it came to figures, but grasped business concepts and other logical conundrums well and would have stewards to do the actual counting for her anyways.

So, the future was bright. Sansa ended up assuming Dauphin duties alongside Uncle Benjen at fifteen, while Robb began winning battles for Winter left and right. And while losing Father was devastating, he’d been a great enough king that everyone was confident that, at the very least, things would run smoothly and as they should. King Eddard VII was called ‘The Great’ not for battles won or dragons slain, but for the secure future he’d arranged for the Winter Kingdom amidst chaos.

He’d even defied tradition in his own way to make sure that the next generation of Starks did not end up in the same situation he did. When he discovered Sansa’s sister, Arya, had the disposition of a warrior, he put her into training and moved her up in the line of succession over her younger brothers and, when Arya reached her fourteenth Name Day, he moved her ahead of Sansa as well. A wise choice indeed. Sansa had very little stomach for the martial disciplines or war, and would likely make a lackluster queen. Arya was the opposite, always falling asleep when being taught her heraldry, no patience for things like textile arts, and an outright hatred for foreign tongues, but frightfully clever at logistics. A combination of Queen Sansa and Dauphin Arya (as per tradition in case of Robb’s premature demise) would be a mess. Queen Arya and Dauphin Sansa, though, was a perfect team.

Father was good at little contingencies like that.

Father had left them, but he’d left the Winter Kingdom a treasure of incalculable worth: a secure future. A perfect King and Queen in waiting. An excellent Dauphin (even better: Bran had a great aptitude for stately matters, so a fine Dauphin-in-waiting as well). Perfect. Exemplary.

Sansa’s grown up knowing exactly what her life would be. Guiding her family’s kingdom, keeping bellies full and beds warm as her brother (or, gods forbid, her sister) kept the lizards at bay. She never wanted to be anything but the Dauphin. When Father had considered putting Arya ahead of her, he’d sought permission from Sansa to do so. Sansa didn’t have to think twice. She has no desire to be queen, nor the proper talents for it. She’d rather do some good than possibly bungle things by doing a job she wasn’t suited for.

Not to mention, the Dauphin had more personal freedom. The king (or queen) was tasked with the succession as well as warfare. The Dauphin, less so. They had more freedom in matters like marriage and lifestyle, though marriage, especially for the women, was often avoided. If (gods forbid) she ever became queen, she couldn’t marry Domeric. Dom was heir to The Dreadfort and had to preserve his family name. As queen, Sansa would have to continue the Arryn Stark line herself, could never be Lady Bolton. The further she was from that sacrifice, the better.

It was a gift, really. Father left them so many gifts.

That’s how it was supposed to be, anyways.

After everything Father did, all the pains he went to, work he did… And this is how Robb chose to honor Father’s memory. By tearing it apart.

At first, Sansa, despite her misgivings, was willing to support Robb when he announced he’d sue for a Waiting period just a year after those bastards murdered Father. She couldn’t understand why, exactly. It’s not as if the Targaryens had let up at all on their brutality, nor were they winning. Robb was a sorcerer with battle plans. He won every battle. But perhaps a short respite for their armies was necessary.

Then she arrived at the front and heard the ‘terms’ of the peace. Indeed, that there were terms negotiated already, which was unheard of. It was the king’s prerogative to declare when conflicts began and ended, yes. But once he did, it was the Dauphin’s role to negotiate said terms. This was a state matter. It was the role. Robb had no business even inking his quill until Sansa had arrived, negotiated, and drafted a treaty. Yet, when she reached the camp to do exactly that, there was already a treaty written, drafted, signed, awaiting only her signature.

It got worse, though. Robb hadn’t just completely upset the order of things and gone over her head. Oh no. He apparently did this on the basis that there’d be lasting peace, not waiting. The same exact mistake their grandfather had made, but worse.

That lasting peace was forged by a marriage. Robb had agreed to marry the Targaryen Princess Rhaenys.

Her brother actually had the nerve to act surprised at her outrage. “I’d think you’d be glad! You wanted me to get married!”

Yes, to secure the succession, but to a woman of Winter. Not lizard spawn.

“Are you mad?!” Sansa had raged. “I wanted you to wed a Dacey Mormont! A Myranda Royce! A strong, intelligent, capable consort! Your children will be the future monarch and Dauphin of the Winter Kingdom! And so you choose the daughter of hideously incestuous, mad rapists to have them with?! You want to leave your children and kingdom with that level of inbreeding?! Seven Hells, Robb, this princess bride of yours is probably just a set of brown teeth that keeps trying to breed with itself! Then there’s their ‘divine blood’ nonsense… Your kingdom deserves leaders that know themselves to be men, not gods! Her father raped our aunt and her brother killed our father! Assuming she’s not too inbred to speak, she’ll probably raise them to think themselves beyond humanity or some stupidity! You’ll leave our country to tyrants and fake gods! I can’t even imagine. How many generations of sibling marriage does this generation even come from, or all they all the same person at this point?!”

“She’s old King Rhaegar’s daughter, so, actually, her mother isn’t her aunt. Her mother is Elia Martell of Dorne.”

That had been slightly better. Sure, her grandparents, great-grandparents and such on one side were all siblings, but there were SOME fresh genes. And the Nymeros Martells boasted a proud legacy, that did not, miraculously enough, include mothers giving birth to their own siblings/nephews/cousins.

“Was she raised in Dorne, at least?”

“No.”

Less reassuring. So Princess Rhaenys would still have been raised amidst all that divine-blood-of-the-dragon nonsense. Sansa would have to keep a close eye on her brother’s family.

“I can have a wedding arranged in three moons. Please tell me you at least got them to agree to have it in our country.”

“We agreed to wait a year, actually. King Rhaegar is dying, apparently.”

This whole thing still sparked outrage, of course. Their vassals practically rioted. There were even some talking about overthrowing Robb and putting Arya in his place. And, of course, Sansa was forced to handle all of it.

She was willing to, of course. That’s what her life was supposed to be, really. She never, ever expected things to be easy. She wasn’t entitled to ease.

She tried to look on the bright side during the worst difficulties. Once Robb married Rhaenys, he’d have a child soon after. Once he did, she and Dom would be free to wed at last. So she kept herself going with that promise ahead of her. She forgave her brother.

But this? No. This she shall never forgive him for.

Just four months away from the wedding, and he jilts her. Robb falls in bed with some random foreigner from the Westerlands, decides he’s fallen in love as well, and weds her, thus destroying the peace treaty HE had run through right under Sansa’s nose. Violating the terms of the peace without warning.

It’s not that Sansa expected the absurd “peace” arrangement to last. Not at all. A couple of years would pass and then the lizards would decide that really, they ought to be ruling Winter after all, that they’d somehow bought the kingdom with their princess or some such nonsense. It’s what they always did. It was practically a past-time with them.

But this time, the treaty wasn’t broken by the lizards. This time, for the first time in three hundred years, it had been them.

They are not duplicitous, dishonorable, cruel Targaryens. They are Arryn Starks. The motto of House Stark is ‘Winter is Coming’. The motto of the Arryns, ‘As High as Honor’. Both of those mottos are sacred. Their reputation for honor has always been sterling. It had been an asset that facilitated many advantageous friendships and arrangements with foreign powers who preferred to do their business in Westeros with the honorable Arryn Starks over the foul Targaryens. The reputation had helped protect them from their enemy.

Now Robb had tarnished that legacy. He couldn’t have dishonored Father’s memory more if he’d spit on his tomb.

And, somehow, now her brother had found a way to make it even worse.

He’d once again gone behind her back to make a new arrangement to preserve his stupid ‘peace’.

Robb had summoned Sansa to his privy chambers to tell her. To tell her what he’d done.

“An end to bloodshed has to be preserved, Sansa. At any cost.”

But he didn’t pay it. She said so.

“I’m so sorry, Sweet Sister. I know I bungled this. But I promise, I made sure that you will be honored. I made sure of it, I swear! You won’t be just a sacrifice, you’ll be Queen!”

 _A_  queen. Those reptilian lechers take multiple wives. They collect them like cattle. And since sisters and wives are practically synonymous in that family, she’ll probably be the only “queen” without any sacred blood. The lowly human wife.  _Of her father’s killer!_  She’ll be the one whose brother jilted one of their sacred, semi-divine kin. 

She pointed this out.

“Not to mention how they’re allowed to treat their wives,” she sneered. “They say Aerys The Mad’s wife was constantly covered in scars and burns. One of their kings kept his sister wives prisoner in a vault. THAT is what you’ve sold me to! I am torn from my home by the son of our aunt’s rapist, torn from a life of leadership, service, and honor as Dauphin of our country, with the man I love, to being our enemy’s rape doll. At least Lyanna didn’t have to bear the pain of being sold to her rapist by her own family! At least she wasn’t expected to bed the man that killed her father! We fought a twenty year war for Lyanna! You sell me to them as a consolation prize!”

She spat in his face. “I won’t do it, Robb. I won’t.”

He looked at her with sad eyes. “You will. You know you will. You will do it to save Northern lives.”

“You mean briefly prolong them!” She snapped. “You’re an idiot if you think this will stop those monsters from flying in and slaughtering our people once the mood strikes them.”

Sansa ran. She had help. Domeric helped her sneak out — escape from her own home and family. They got her to Barrowtown, the domain of Dom’s aunt and guardian, Lady Dustin, by the time Robb’s men found her and dragged her back. They’d been betrayed by Dom’s bastard brother, Ramsay.

It wasn’t enough for Robb, apparently. “Cooperate, Sansa, and I’ll pardon your lover for abducting you.”

“Abducting me?!” There was no arguing, though. They had Dom in chains. Robb unsheathed Ice.

“Pardon him?!” The Bastard of the Dreadfort howled. “But he-!”

“ENOUGH!” Robb cried out. “Make a decision, Sister. His life is in your hands.”

In tears, Sansa agreed. Her beloved was dragged away. That was the last she saw of him.

Her brother had the nerve to try and condescend to her. “I negotiated with the Targaryens. Their new king is unmarried. He’s our cousin, actually. Lyanna’s son. They say he’s a much gentler sort than his father, grandfather, and uncles. And he has agreed to have you as his only wife. They have sworn that you’ll know no harm or abuse. You’ll be queen above all others, Chief Lady of the Realm.”

“Lovely,” she sneered, “The sole queen of lizards and cattle.”

Just a few short weeks ago, she knew what her life would be. One of purpose, of good works, of celebrating and serving her home and honoring her father’s memory. She’d marry Domeric, raise her family in the proud North. Her son would be Lord of the Dreadfort. She’d do great things with people she cared about and trusted. Good people.

Now she’s locked in her room, waiting to be sent off to be a broodsow for the son of a rapist. By her own brother!

So she howls. She howls so all can hear. So all can know.

She howls when a group of seamstresses come to measure her for a new wardrobe. Sansa’s always loved fashion. Loved sewing. Loved silks. Nothing calmed her like a needle and thread. Some of her happiest childhood moments were when she got a new set of clothes for the year – new dresses, shoes, stockings, ribbons, cloaks, gloves…

She was fascinated by jewels, too. It was a great triumph on her tenth Name Day when she was deemed old enough to wear some. Domeric was an amateur artisan who made pieces for her.

Now, a most extravagant wardrobe is being ordered for her. Clothing and jewelry. Silks, velvets, gold, diamonds beyond anything she ever dreamt of. It seems even more like an insult. Robb, thinking he can make up for destroying her life with trinkets.

So she takes some small, petty revenge here and there. “I want all of mother’s jewelry,” she told Maester Luwin when they went over her dowry arrangements.

It hurts to mention Mother, who died a few months after Father. But at least she didn’t live to see what her son had become.

“…All, My Lady?”

“Ever. Single. Bauble.”

“Most can be arranged, but… You see, King Robb made a gift of Queen Catelyn’s sapphire suite to Queen Jeyne for—”

“No. He did not,” Sansa replies, “I’m still technically Dauphin, correct?”

“Er, yes, in a fashion.”

“And I was Dauphin when Robb supposedly made this ‘gift’? Acting, in fact?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Luwin, you know the law. That’s impossible. Because all of the crown’s property and treasury is—”

“—The domain of the Dauphin, yes.”

“The king is not allowed under law to gift a family heirloom to anyone without the Dauphin’s authorization, is he?” That had been in the charter for years. On mostly everything, the monarch had the final authority. Robb was in his rights to sue for peace, make treaties, even marry her off. But there was one balancing contingency. The royal treasury. The royal purse and property was strictly the domain of the Dauphin. No major expenditure or gift was technically valid without her approval. This was rarely enforced. But then, the king’s right to sell his sister like chattel was rarely enforced, either.

“Er, no, Your Excellency.”

“Right, so at best, my brother _lent_ his queen the sapphires. Which, as of now, I declare my property. In fact, Luwin, I think you’ve technically been shirking your duties as steward by not showing me the accounts. I have no idea of just how much is being spent right now, or how resources are being allocated. As Dauphin, I am obligated by honor and law to attend to and guide the finances of our nation until I take my leave of office. I do not do that until I am wed.”

Luwin’s lip curls. “Now that you mention it, Your Excellency, that’s right. Forgive me. It is of tantamount importance that you do your duty.”

Sansa was brought the accounts. She promptly slashed her brother’s privy purse by two thirds, ordered the seizure of all family jewelry, silver, and valuable artwork from his apartments, and legally granted them to other parties. Robb returned to his rooms that evening with his queen to find the furs stripped from his bed, his silver candlesticks replaced with pewter, and his own guards gently issuing a demand that he and Jeyne surrender all the jewelry they were wearing and informing him that instead of the kingly silver he was used to, he would now be eating his meals with wooden plates and spoons, and that his dinner would be, in fact, left over mutton stew and steamed turnips.

In the Kingdom of Winter, even Kings were bound by law. Kings also weren’t allowed to formally remove their Dauphin from office. Robb had no choice. He even had to hand over Ice, which Sansa officially declared to be Arya’s property. The only thing she couldn’t seize was the actual crown. But she did get to take his favorite horse.

Most likely, the moment she was wed and Bran officially became the new Dauphin, everything would be handed back to her brother save for whatever Sansa took with her. But it was worth it to put her brother in second-hand wools and tallow candles for a few months at least.

Her kingly brother charged into her chambers, furious, clearly ready to say something. But when he saw the look on her face (and the expressions of the guards and servants in the room), he thought better of it, turned on his heel, and left.

Sansa wasn’t going to bankrupt the crown, obviously. No, that would cause the kingdom to suffer, and the kingdom deserved better. But slashing the monarch’s privy purse hurt no one. The funds to make sure Robb’s rooms were lit with beeswax instead of cheap tallow were allocated to sewer maintenance instead. She gave the laundresses, kitchen staff, household guard, and stablehands all raises as well. That would be a lot harder for Robb to undo. He’d find difficulty to get his orders followed when said orders would reduce the salaries of his own staff.

She spent a small fortune on two chests of silks, jewels, sewing supplies, and coins to the Dreadfort. One for Dom. The other to be given to whatever woman was lucky enough to become his wife, along with a letter begging him to find someone wonderful, and love her as he’d loved Sansa.

And yes, she spent plenty to engorge her dowry and trousseau. In the finest silken thread, she embroidered “Fuck Robb, the Slaver King’ and ‘All Hail Queen Arya’ along the hemlines of her new gown. She even used gold and crystal beads for a few.

It gave her moments of vindictive glee. But they didn’t last. She’d shared a bed with her lover since she was sixteen, but now sleeps alone. And every day is a day closer to leaving everything she’s ever known and loved for the Dragon’s Den.

Spite and Disdain are the only ways she can bear to think of her betrothed. Lyanna might have been his mother, but she died in childbirth. King Jon was raised by the lizards, as a lizard. Raised among incestuous harems, corruption, decadence, under a doctrine of divine right. She’s surprised he’s named something as simple as ‘Jon’ and not ‘Glorarys Flaegar’ or whatever the fuck these people call themselves. He probably has several children who are also his nephews. And his brothers. Even the girls.

Well, at the very least, given the privy that is his gene pool, maybe he’ll inherit the wits of his grandfather Prince Aemon, who had the brilliant idea that drinking wildfire would turn him into an actual dragon. Maybe he’d do it soon after the wedding, before he had a chance to impregnate her with his lizard spawn. It probably wouldn’t be hard to convince him to do something that would only ever kill a mere mortal, but never one of THE BLOOD OF OLD VALYRIA!

As the days draw nearer, she dreams of a dragon at the foot of her bed, waiting to devour her. With every passing night, she finds that her bed has grown shorter and shorter, the dragon ever closer until her feet are an inch from its mouth.

It gets harder to find ease through insults. She does finds one thing to laugh about on the days she leaves. The whole court gathers to see her off. Everyone, even Arya, is in velvet. Even the servants, thanks to her new budget, have rich, shining livery of the Arryn Stark silver, aqua, and white. The king is in homespun.

She stiffens when Robb pulls her into an embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Not sorry enough. I hope this was worth losing a sister.”

Arya weeps. Sansa hasn’t seen her like this since Father’s funeral. When they hug, Sansa whispers, “Long live Your Grace.”

“Long live Your Excellency.”

Bran and Rickon are in tears as well. Rickon tries to hide it, Bran does not. Sansa kisses his forehead. “Just… Take care of this place for me, alright? You’ll make a wonderful Dauphin.”

“I shouldn’t have to. Long live Queen Arya.”

Rickon whispers something similar. It makes Sansa’s heart stop. Even after the tearful goodbyes are made, she keeps hearing this whispered as she says goodbye to Luwin, Mikken, Gytha the Cook, Jory, Ser Rodrick.

As she rides south, she hears the words in her heard, in time with her heartbeat.  _Long live Queen Arya. Long live Queen Arya._


	2. The State of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the new king, who discusses his upcoming match with his aunt, the Mother of Dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to magnomar for her beta-work!
> 
> This ended up being much more fleshed out than I originally planned. I'm going to get more into Sansa's backstory next chapter.

Jon:

“The audacity of these Northern dogs,” remarks Daenerys testily as she stands by the window, looking out onto the southern gardens. “To make such demands after jilting your sister!”

She turns and stares at Jon, who sharpens Blackfyre behind his desk. Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t say it aloud, but Jon knows what she’s thinking. He is weak. He is weak for swallowing the insult to his sister, for accepting this Northern bride --- not even a maiden, according to reports --- and keeping her as his only wife. He is weak for not waging war again on Rhaenys’s behalf. For not taking advantage of Daenerys’s miracle.

But the dragons are hatchlings, more or less. No bigger than the average Highgarden Sparrow. And they’re already showing signs of being hard to control. His aunt is a ‘mother’ to some very wayward children.

Dragons started weakening not long after Aegon’s Conquest when the Targaryens started confining them to the Dragon Pit. They died out completely over a century ago.

In Daenerys’s mind (and, indeed, the minds of many of his court), the rebirth of the creatures was a sign that their king should grow more aggressive and hostile towards the Northern rebels.

Swallowing insults, suing for peace, and upending three centuries of tradition to take a Northern bride was what he did instead.

House Targaryen has dragons again! Surely this is the time they will finally take down those Northern rebel dogs and complete Aegon’s dream of unified Westeros once and for all.

Jon is less swept up by the lofty dreams of his subjects. House Targaryen had dragons for over a century. This included a period where they commanded Balerion the Black Dread and another where they had over a dozen dragons. And yet, the Winter Kingdom still stands. If that couldn't bring them to heel, why would three hatchlings be enough?

Yes, they may grow, but many secrets of raising them strong and healthy have been lost to the ages. There are only three, and Jon thinks it unlikely that any of them will ever achieve Balerion’s might. Even if they are raised well enough, the Wintermen have proven it takes far more than three dragons (even when one is Balerion) to tame the northern kingdoms.

And even if they do grow, there’s the matter of training the things. There haven’t been any dragon riders in nearly two centuries. As much as his kin liked to boast of their “pure Valyrian blood”, that didn’t guarantee that they’d be able to properly use them. For all they knew, the dragons could grow to burn King’s Landing to the ground.

In any case, properly weaponizing the creatures is years off. There is some efficacy to them, of course. All it took was Jon presenting the white one, Viserion, barely larger than a sparrow, to the King of Winter for peace talks to begin. And the rebirth of the dragons definitely calmed ambitions and hostilities of some of House Targaryen’s unrulier vassals.

But having the dragons also makes his family a target. There are likely to be many foreign powers who decide it would be prudent to attack and end their family before those hatchlings reach maturity and pose a threat to their domains. Even centuries later, the legacy of the Valyrian Freehold weighs heavily on the world’s memory. It would make sense for a Free City such as, say, Braavos, to attack while the creatures are still tiny to ensure that their city remained free.

It also makes sense for an ambitious king, Triarch, Magister, etc to see the dragons as an opportunity. To attack and seize the creatures themselves.

It doesn’t help that the realm is in such a delicate state.

Or, rather, the crown is.

His grandfather Aerys II dealt a shocking blow with his paranoid abuses of power. Grandfather had so thoroughly alienated his most powerful subjects that the Lannisters and the Baratheons nearly defected and joined with the Arryn Starks against the Mad King.

The situation got so desperate that Father was forced to seize control from his father. And, to save House Targaryen from ruin, he ended up granting the Westerlands and Stormlands major concessions that weakened the absolute power of the Iron Throne in order to keep them from turning their cloaks.

That, of course, only prompted outcry from the Iron Islands and the Reach as to why the other realms got special treatment. Rhaegar had no decent answer for them.

Most of the realm’s resources have been put towards the struggle against the Winter Kingdom for over twenty years now. The latest conflict hadn’t been a conquest, either, but a war of vengeance.

With a conquest, the fight was more in their control, as they were purely on Northern soil. But this war was different. They had to fight both offensively and defensively, protecting their own borders and lands for once instead of merely attacking the enemy’s. The strain of it was fairly exhaustive.

Far from rising from the ashes, House Targaryen is still covered in them, dragons or not. They simply cannot afford war with Winter if they wish to survive right now. They need to have forces and resources on hand to defend against any other foreign attacks. And they especially needed allies. Dorne’s support of the Iron Throne, always a bit tenuous, dropped severely upon Aegon’s death.

While Grandfather had done the bulk of work in disempowering the family, Father certainly contributed. It was not just that he took Jon’s mother, prompting the last Winter War. It was how he did it as well. Dorne had agreed to a peaceful alliance on a gentleman’s agreement that Rhaegar would only take concubines, not additional wives, and that he would only take said concubines after Elia had given him two sons. Never signed into law, but it was a promise.

Poor High Queen Elia, always delicate, nearly died bringing Rhaenys and, later, Aegon, into the world. Aegon’s birth was particularly traumatic for her, rendering her sterile.

Rhaegar had started publicly courting Princess Lyanna of Winter with a grand public gesture while Elia still carried Aegon. At a grand tourney designed to celebrate a future friendship between Winter and the Iron Throne, Rhaegar won. Instead of honoring his wife as his Queen of Love and Beauty per the custom, he slighted Elia by crowning Lyanna instead. House Martell was present for this. A few months later, Jon’s parents had absconded together, with no notice to any of the relevant families. The only word they sent --- much too late --- was that Rhaegar had married her. But by that point Rickard and Brandon Stark were already dead.

Elia and her children, meanwhile, were kept hostage to force Dorne to arms against the Arryn Starks, which infuriated them even after Lyanna died in childbed and Rhaegar deposed the king. For years, the only thing that kept Dorne’s support was that the next King was Elia’s son, half-Martell.

Then the Battle of Rayonet happened.

King Eddard IV was a famed warrior. Not a total prodigy like his son, but certainly a force to be reckoned with. With the deaths of Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna, the Winter Kingdom had two definite aims in this war: to retrieve Lyanna’s bones and to take Jon to Winterfell to be raised among them. A less explicit and official goal was to destroy House Targaryen and the Iron Throne once and for all, but almost everyone believed that peace might be eventually achieved without it coming to that.

But Father was not willing to surrender his only child with his beloved Lyanna to the rebel dogs. Nor were any of the family, really. Even Viserys, who categorically resented every son of Rhaegar for being ahead of him in the succession, would never stand for it. Jon is a Targaryen, one of theirs, after all. A trueborn son of the Blood Royal and Old Valyria. To surrender a son of House Targaryen to primitive Northern dogs was unthinkable.

The only person as radically opposed to losing Jon as Rhaegar was Aegon. Despite the tensions regarding their mothers, Queen Elia, kind soul that she was, raised the motherless Jon kindly and patiently alongside her own son.

Aegon was the perfect Targaryen prince: fair-haired, violet-eyed, tall, powerful. Aside from appearance, though, Aegon took after his Martell uncle, Prince Oberyn.

The Crown Prince was adventurous, dangerous, easily bored, brilliant, lusty, outgoing, and confident. He’d gotten the artistic talents of both his uncle and his father, and made no secret of it.

Jon in contrast had inherited the Stark looks of his mother with shaggy dark brown hair, grey eyes, and a long face. He inherited the more contemplative, solemn nature of their father.

While King Rhaegar had reluctantly become a great warrior out of a perceived need, at heart the man was an artist and scholar who preferred the library and his harp to a blade. He was a tragic, reserved man who passionately loved his sons, and even after decades and subsequent wives, he mourned Lyanna daily. Jon was no artist or particularly studious, and he was certainly of a martial bent. But he shared his father’s introverted, thoughtful, and reserved personality nonetheless.

Aegon was just as ridiculously handsome as his father, but Jon, while not bad-looking, had none of either man’s striking beauty.

Whereas Aegon was loud and fast, Jon was subtle and quick. Where Aegon was powerfully built, Jon was leaner. Aegon was dashing and flirtatious. Jon was shy and quiet. Aegon was pious, visiting the Sept every day to light a candle and pray. Jon the skeptic accompanied him out of loyalty and rolled his eyes during services. Aegon was painfully, unfairly, obscenely talented at music, art, and poetry. Jon was a reluctant conversationalist who took more interest in subjects other people seemed to find dull, like agriculture and mathematics.

Jon always, always envied his brother for his charm, his talent, his intelligence, his strength. He envied Aegon for having a mother --- while Elia had taken him in, there was still always too much underlying baggage for them to share a true mother-son relationship.

Elia loved Rhaegar desperately, but struggled with forgiving him for humiliating, abandoning, and endangering her and their children.

The fact that Rhaegar so unsubtly still mourned his Northern wife for the rest of his days didn’t help either.

Thus, the most Elia ever managed for Jon was a lightly affectionate guardianship. She would hug Jon as he went to bed. But for Aegon and Rhaenys, she’d visit their rooms, tell them stories, sing to them, and shower them with kisses. She would give Jon a pat on the back for a major success. But every little thing Rhaenys and Aegon managed left her beaming for days.

Jon envied Aegon all these things and yet, he could never hate him. Aegon got his mother’s loving heart. He was simply too good-natured to hate.

One of the few things Jon beat him at was swordplay. While most boys might react with anger at their brother knocking them into the mud, Aegon always laughed, congratulated Jon, and asked him for tips. Despite Jon’s accomplishments being legitimately minor in comparison to Aegon’s, his brother would boast of them to anyone willing to listen.

Since the two were born within a year of one another and were never parted, people called them The Twins. Others jokingly referred to Jon as Aegon’s shadow.

But they truly did nearly everything together. They won their first tourney together: Aegon in the lists, Jon in the melee. They rode together into battle. They lost their virginity together with a Lysene whore Viserys had purchased for the elder brother on his fifteenth Name Day. His brother even gave Jon the ‘first turn”. That whole experience had been one of the few times Jon ever saw his brother vulnerable: nervous and hesitant as he took a woman for the first time.

It was Jon who helped Aegon through his first heartbreak as well.

Mere weeks after that Name Day, a new knight came to court. Ser Renly Baratheon, breathtakingly charismatic and just as handsome, stole a hundred hearts at court. One of those hearts belonged to the Crown Prince.

Petrified, Jon’s brother came to him and confessed his “unnatural” feelings. His brother was religious. He knew what the Seven Pointed Star said about buggery. He didn’t want The Father to judge him a deviant.

Jon, skeptical and sacreligious by nature, still wasn’t sure exactly how to handle this confession. But he tried to comfort his older brother as best he could.

As it turned out, Renly himself had little interest in the women who fawned over him, but he did seem to like his prince. Aegon was overjoyed. Jon, ever the loyal brother, helped him, carrying messages for the two men and even standing watch outside the door as they had intimate meetings.

Ser Renly was a clever politician as it turned out. He suggested to both Aegon and King Rhaegar that his lover’s first bride be Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, the beautiful daughter of the wealthy and powerful Lord of the Reach. Aegon, mortified at the thought of marriage, was pressured into it by the honeyed tones of his lover and the urging of his father, who absolutely loved the idea.

It was Jon who stood beside Aegon during the wedding and whispered words of support to him throughout the ceremony to help his brother psyche himself for the consummation.

And it was Jon who comforted his brother in the ensuing disaster.

Joining the new Princess Margaery at court was her handsome brother. Ser Loras Tyrell, the ‘Knight of Flowers’, was at his tender age already famous for his skill in the lists. As it turned out, Ser Loras was Ser Renly’s secret lover, and madly in love with him.

In his jealousy, the Knight of Flowers confronted Jon’s brother, who had up until then believed Renly when he said Aegon was his only love. The enraged Loras even threatened to expose his prince for buggery if he didn’t ‘stay away.’

After Jon watched his inconsolable brother cry himself to sleep, he slipped out of the family chambers and wrote a letter to Aegon’s uncle, Prince Oberyn. The famed Red Viper of Dorne visited court, and he and Jon paid both Ser Renly and Ser Loras late night visits. The morning after, both men announced they’d be leaving the Red Keep by sundown, and were not seen or heard from at court again.

Aegon was Jon’s brother, and there was nothing Jon wouldn’t do for him.

This was mutual, as it turned out. The Crown Prince proved that when the rebel dogs drew near.

King Eddard, bolstered by his brilliant son’s successes, made it farther than anyone thought possible, leading a Northern force over the border, only about a dozen leagues from the capital.

The Arryn Starks were never, ever supposed to get that close to the capital. Ever. Jon, though, wanted to meet his uncle head on. He wanted to take the man down, make it clear where his home and loyalties lay, and send him running back to Winterfell with his tail between his legs. He would do it with Aegon by his side.

Aegon, as it turned out, had other ideas. Ideas he shared with Father and Prince Oberyn.

The morning they were due to ride out to face the King of Winter, Jon was still asleep thanks to something Oberyn dropped into his wine the night before. He awoke well into the evening not in his chamber in Maegor’s holdfast, but his room at Dragonstone with a letter from his brother by his bedside.

The letter was meant to be an assurance, a promise.

_I know you’ll be furious with me. But I know how this goes. You’ll forgive me. We always forgive one another._

_I’ll drive the Mutt-King away and be back by the weeks end, and we’ll be laughing over a dozen flagons of ale._

_I just couldn’t do it. It’s not just the risk, though that is great. The thought of you captured and hauled away to that frozen wasteland is agonizing. But we’ve ridden together into mortal peril before. The thought of you carried off to Winterfell is no more agonizing than the thought of you dead._

_So it’s not just that._

_It’s that you’re brave, and devoted, and while you’re nothing like those rebellious mongrels, they are still your family. The best of them was your mother, and she escaped them, and now you’re the best of them. And the best of us too, really._

_Despite how much of a dragon you are, Jon, they are your blood. Bringing you to this battle would mean forcing you to take up arms against your own kin. And you would. You’d not hesitate to fight for us, full force. You never have. But this is different. Even as awful as they are, if you faced Eddard Arryn Stark directly, it would still be kinslaying. And I would never forgive myself if I made a kinslayer of you._

_I know you’ve only ever seen the sept as a chore and the gods as fairy-tales. But you’ve always managed to be such a good man despite this. Your honor is untouchable, even without devotion to the Seven. In a way, I’ve always sort of admired how you could be so naturally decent without having to seek out the guidance of the gods much._

_You’re just naturally good, an untainted soul._

_But there are few The Father judges more harsher than kinslayers, Jon. There’s a space in the seventh Hell for them. Stop rolling your eyes. Even if you don’t believe it, I couldn’t bear to see you stand before Him at your death and be damned by His judgment._

_If you’re still angry when I get back, I’ll let you pay me back. You have permission to force me out of a battle in the future, alright? Fair’s fair. I’ll even have Oberyn give you a vial of the drug we gave you to pull this off._

_We’ll be laughing about this. All the years you’ve gone without ever once punching Joffrey in the teeth is proof you’re more forgiving than The Father._

Jon hasn’t forgiven Aegon. Because his brother didn’t come back from that battle.

The whole realm mourned, but Jon especially so. He felt like a part of him had been taken. Like he’d lost an arm or a leg.

Or a heart.

The fact that he was now heir to the throne didn’t even sink in. It was inconsequential, as far as he was concerned. No, his thoughts were not on the crown or the realm. He fixed his mind on justice.

Six moons later, he met Eddard Arryn Stark in battle. It was haunting, really.

Not because Jon had any qualms about killing this man, either. But because they looked so much alike. Jon spotted the King of Winter across the field before the forces charged. The man had not yet donned his helmet. Jon felt like he was looking into a looking-glass twenty years into the future. Same long face. Same sad, grey eyes. Same shaggy hair.

When they got close, King Eddard had the nerve to hold back, to even try to _speak_ to him. To _use his name._ “Jon, at last! I’d know you anywhere---”

_“I know you too!”_

Jon did not hold back against his brother’s killer. His uncle did, which was infuriating. Blocking, but not countering blows. And _talking._ He wouldn’t stop trying to _talk_ to Jon. King Eddard had been nicknamed the Quiet Wolf, but he didn’t live up to that in his final moments.

No matter, as his uncle’s voice was drowned out by the clashing of metal and the cries of the soldiers that surrounded them. Jon didn’t hear a word beyond those first few.

Then, finally, Jon had Eddard Arryn Stark on his knees before him. The king’s helmet was jostled, and Jon saw those sad eyes. The eyes of a man who would never, ever intentionally do him harm. The eyes of a man who _loved_ him.

It was only for a moment. Oberyn hurried over, spear raised. An image of his brother in the same pose as a lad flashed through Jon’s mind. His arms regained their strength, and his blade fell.

The first spray of blood from King Eddard’s neck hit Jon’s surcoat, and with it, reality washed over him. And Jon realized too late what he’d done.

He’d killed a man who was no true threat to him. A man he could have, _should have_ , defeated and spared. A man who loved him.

His uncle, his _kin._

Aegon had died to spare Jon the stain of kinslaying. He’d died for him. To prevent him from spilling the blood of his mother’s family. To preserve Jon’s honor.

And Jon, in return, took everything Aegon sacrificed himself for, and threw it away.

When he returned to the capital, having won the battle, the crowds cheered. He’d slain the King of Winter! Avenged his brother! Defended the realm!

But every shout of adulation seemed like a taunt.

At least once a week, he dreams of himself back on that battlefield, seeing those sad, grey eyes. He brings his blade down onto his uncle’s neck. But the head that falls to the ground isn’t Eddard Arryn Stark’s. It’s Aegon Targaryen’s. Aegon’s violet eyes staring up at him, baffled by this betrayal. Not angry. Not condemning. Just… lost. Confused. Betrayed. A heartbreak beyond anything that Renly Baratheon could have dealt.

Everyone around Jon observed his moods and wondered how such a glorious victory only served to make their famously brooding prince even more morose.

Not that he had much time to brood. The loss of Aegon left King Rhaegar a wreck. Father wept in his sleep, calling his son’s name, begging him for forgiveness for abandoning him again. The once-glorious king’s hands began to shake regularly. Ironically, Aegon’s ashes were stored next to Lyanna’s, a statue of him erected beside the late Winter Princess. Rhaegar spent more and more hours in their tomb, sitting between the two statues, strumming his harp and going back and forth between singing and mumbling to himself.

Jon did what Aegon would do. He went to work.

At first, the court was relieved at him taking the reins of government as his father slowly collapsed in on himself. They expected Jon to be the glorious Prince Regent his own father had been all those years ago, riding into battle, winning glorious victories to drive the Wintermen back.

But Aegon died to keep Jon from kinslaying. Jon betrayed his brother’s sacrifice once, but he would not do it again.

Not that he ended the war right then and there. No, he dispatched troops to drive the Winter forces back. He devoted hours and hours to keeping the Young Wolf at bay. But he commanded from the palace and prepared. He dealt no devastating damage, just did what was necessary to contain the enemy and drive them back across the borders.

Once he accomplished that, he stuffed Daenerys’s dragons under his cloak, grabbed a white flag, and rode for the front lines.

King Robb looked nothing like his father. Perhaps that made things easier.

Rhaenys never really took to the royal court. Sending her to live in Dorne was out of the question, as too many advisors feared the Dornish would go to war once they had Rhaenys and Elia back. But his half-sister always had a much freer spirit than the confines of the Red Keep really appreciated.

While the Winter Kingdom wasn’t Dorne, it was known to be a bit more liberal with the fairer sex than the Iron Throne. Many Winter Women took up arms themselves, led Houses, defended holdfasts. Some even went into trades like brewing, smithing, and fishing.

Their strange, fractured government permitted, even encouraged women to take up positions of authority in ruling. They’d had a few ruling queens. Apparently, one of King Robb’s own sisters was promoted up the line of succession and made his heir presumptive. Another of his sisters was some sort of steward or something, and was rumored to have a live-in paramour.

Not too different from the Dornish, really.

His cousin was handsome, too. And Jon could tell he was well-liked by his men.

When the King’s sister, the steward one, had to be summoned to sign the treaty as well, Jon felt he’d made a good choice for his sister. So a deal was made.

Then that deal was broken.

Jon saw red, and made sure House Westerling suffered consequences for their daughter’s wantonness. But he also thought of what Aegon would do.

Father passed away shortly after the betrothal ended. Jon watched his father’s body burn and felt like he was watching everything else he knew and love burn with it. While Rhaegar’s body burned, though, Cersei Lannister whispered behind her veil. Viserys chattered with various lords and stared hungrily at the Iron Throne. Daenerys spoke to him of her dragons and the fire they’d bring.

Fire indeed. But it wouldn’t be their enemies that would burn.

Everyone always expected Jon and Aegon to be enemies, bitter rivals. It was practically tradition in the Targaryen bloodline for brothers to plot against one another. Especially if they had different mothers.

Perhaps it was the result of being half-breeds instead of ‘pure’ dragons, but the two of them just never had the urge. Jon had no interest in being king, ever. Aegon wasn’t the type to hold grudges over the sins of one’s forebears.

The scheming, grasping, sniping nature of their family always bothered them both. Jon, for the most part, held Viserys, Cersei, and the others in disdain, while Aegon just pitied them. House Targaryen will destroy itself if something isn’t done. The last thing this family needs is more fire.

~_~_~_~_~

So Jon agreed to meet with King Robb, this time on Southern soil, to renegotiate.

He, too, was stunned by the utter _nerve_ of that philandering _mongrel_ making demands upon him. Robb Arryn Stark had jilted a princess, and still thought to dictate new terms to her brother? Jon’s initial response to this was to flip over the table and storm out.

Everyone said he ought to slaughter the Winter King’s whole retinue. They shouted for blood. For Aegon. For Rhaenys’s honor. For the pride of House Targaryen and the Iron Throne.

Instead, Jon returned to the tent the next day. And he set out some conditions of his own. This would not merely be peace, but an alliance. The Winter Kingdom would come to the Iron Throne’s aid if attacked. No more stalling. Rhaegar was dead.

Jon’s bride would be delivered to him upon the completion of the mourning period for his father with a generous dowry in tow. Not only would the contract be signed in each king’s blood, but it would be finalized then and there. No more excuses about needing some steward’s signature. The agreement would be ratified that day.

Oddly enough, the King of Winter seemed more hesitant to sign his sister’s marriage contract than his own.

The Young Wolf even had the nerve to suggest that Rhaenys wed his younger brother, Prince Brandon instead!

A hideous insult.

Jon’s sister was not to be handed down like a stuffed rabbit between siblings, to wed a child who was behind his own sister in the succession, never to inherit any titles. To have his sister live out her days in the household of the man who jilted her, having to curtsey to a whore of practically peasant blood that stole her position, was unacceptable. Jon made that clear.

Jon was done losing people anyways. Especially to the Arryn Starks. No, the Winter King would supply him a princess bride.

“You have two unwed sisters, correct? Which is the fairer?”

King Robb blanched at this. “Er, well, I don’t spend much time comparing my sisters in looks. But Sansa is a celebrated beauty.”

“Very well, I’ll take her then.”

“It’s just…”

As much of a genius as the Young Wolf was in combat, he was an utter incompetent at diplomacy.

The stupid man actually blurted out that the prospective bride was no maiden. When Jon suggested the other sister, King Robb sheepishly admitted that Princess Arya had surrendered her virtue as well.

Until that moment Jon thought that his fellow king was incapable of disgusting him more. But the confession about the princesses proved him wrong.

What kind of brother allowed his sisters to be so dishonored? Princesses, deflowered by dishonorable men with no intention of marrying them. Women of royal blood, allowed to run wild and fall prey to seductions and manipulations and made whores of. And for subjects, men who were supposed to answer to their king, to feel free to seduce their sisters? To unabashedly violate royal women? What kind of king would tolerate such things? It showed a distinct lack of respect and discipline. Utterly disgraceful.

Jon did suspect, however, given Robb’s apparent misgivings, that perhaps the man was just trying to weasel his way out of it. Convince Jon to surrender Rhaenys after all. Perhaps the man was lying to try and dissuade Jon from taking a sister.

The new King of the Iron Throne decided not to fall for this. “Is the Princess Sansa pregnant?”

“No, I’m fairly certain of that. She’s fastidious in everything, but especially about taking her Moon Tea. She’s very traditional, Sansa, and much too proper to produce a bastard.”

Jon had tried not to gag. It wasn’t just the words. It was the conspicuous lack of shame with which the king said them. There was almost _pride_ in that declaration of low standards.

“Has she been with many men?” Jon asked.

“Only one I know of.” For a moment, Jon’s suspicions fled. Then King Robb added, “But she’s madly in love with him. Has been for years. She’s planning to wed him the moment Jeyne gives me an heir.”

If King Robb thought to dissuade him with this talk about tearing apart young love, he was mistaken. Jon just shrugged.

“Well, it’s an unseemly situation for a lady, let alone a princess, to be in such an… arrangement,” Jon replied, measuring his words, “A man who would despoil her like that is no fit husband. This marriage shall be for her own good, that she be rescued from that seducer and placed into an honorable marriage.” Noting the way his cousin’s eyebrows furrowed, Jon added, “She shall be forgiven her transgressions and made a queen, not the whore of some lecherous lordling.”

At this, the Young Wolf went a bit red and gritted his teeth. “He was faithful to her, though. Kept to her bed and her bed alone. That’s more than most of your _queens_ get. You’re living proof of that.”

Jon had nearly walked out again. Nearly did as his advisors urged and ordered a full attack. But he kept his patience.

“Yes, all of my stepmothers long for loyal Northern men like you,” Jon spat back. Robb had the decency to look ashamed. Jon took this small victory and sighed. “But I will promise you now, then. Your sister shall be my only bride.”

“That’s so very generous of you. However, that’s exactly what your father told the Martells thirty years ago. We both know how that ended up. I want it in writing. My sister will have no rivals, no other queens. No dangerous, conniving southern nobles targeting her and her children to move their own brats closer to the throne. No wives, and none of your--- what do you call them? Your mistress collection you keep in the palace---”

“---Concubines.”

“Right, none of them. My nieces and nephews will not grow up looking over their shoulders for ambitious bastards. No more _Blackdragons.”_

There hadn’t been any Blackdragons for seventy years, but Jon pretended to graciously accept a major concession. It gave him leverage. This whole negotiation was hinged upon making concessions that appeared greater than they truly were.

But the Young Wolf wasn’t done. “I mean it. Go back to the whores you have now, tell them it’s over. Whatever bastards you already have, find new homes for them. I won’t have my sister in any danger.”

“I have no bastards.”

“No danger from you, either.” Robb glared. “You’ll never raise a hand to her. Or burn her. Or have her beaten for you. Or whatever it is you people do to your wives. You’ll be gentle. If not… Well, if she doesn’t kill you, I will.”

The threat was not appreciated, and Jon finally cracked. Slightly. “You’ll watch your tone, _Dog._ Only one of us here has broken a vow and dishonored a lady.”

Jon is just happy he conducted the negotiations in private. He knows exactly how it would have looked to any of his court. Him, swallowing insults, seemingly agreeing to everything. He can just imagine how they’d react if they knew. They’d declare that the Wolf had made a bitch of him before cutting his throat.

~_~_~_~_~

“You’re expected to practically become a monk in service to some Northern whore that calls herself a princess! Disgraceful!” Daenerys’s voice cracks like a whip, bringing him back to the present.

Everyone around him seems to think it’s nothing to start another war. His relatives think themselves invincible, especially since the dragons hatched.

The Mother of Dragons, magnificent in her outrage, seems to think so.

 _You’re weak and pathetic for doing this,_ she says with her eyes.

Jon does not let the unspoken challenge provoke him. He’s afraid that if he reacts, he’ll lose control and all his frustrations will come pouring out. He has so many of them, and not just with the Wintermen.

But plenty of them are with the Wintermen.

Robb Arryn Stark, the duplicitous, backward dog, _did_ insult Rhaenys. For that alone, the Arryn Starks cannot be forgiven. And yes, the nerve he showed in demanding Sansa be Jon’s only wife is infuriating. And fairly disconcerting.

But Jon needs Daenerys to understand. They grew up together. They were close as children. In spirit, she is almost as much a sister to him as Rhaenys, and certainly more of one than Myrcella. Even if she wasn’t, though, her words carry much weight these days. He needs to have her behind him. When the Mother of Dragons speaks, people listen.

But she doesn’t know the truth of why Jon has done. None of them do. And Jon can’t tell them, or the delicate house of cards that is this institution will come crashing down. It’s already crumbling a little, certainly. And many people are blaming him, attributing it to his ‘weakness.’

How to explain, though, why he agreed at all? It isn’t weakness. It’s calculation in every sense of the word.

That there was a demand at all was an insult, yes. But the actual contents of the demand were, in fact, nothing.

What Jon cannot admit to Daenerys, or anyone, is that he always intended to keep the smallest harem he possibly could anyways. Or, rather, that had been his idea even before Aegon’s death. Even if he could tell her that, he doesn’t tell her why.

As the second son, he hadn’t intended to keep a harem at all. He didn’t need to.

Still, he would think about it whenever the topic was brought up regarding Aegon’s future, or his father taking a new wife. Jon was technically second-in-line as well, and the country was at war. So, as much as the idea horrified him, he was forced to consider what would happen if Aegon was lost.

It seems so long ago, but it was only a few years. When the Iron Throne was little more than a nightmare, Jon decided that his harem would be the smallest in history.

The fact is, the crown is nearly bankrupt. Despite high tax rates and commerce, the treasury is drained thanks to centuries of ongoing warfare and unchecked opulence.

That includes, in no small part, the royal harem.

Sure, there are great benefits in taking in daughters of powerful houses as royal brides and concubines. It kept the favor of their vassals, who were more inclined to offer service (debt concessions, for instance) to the Iron Throne when their own daughter, sister, or aunt was a ‘queen.’ And the dowries of multiple highborn brides certainly aided the coffers.

But in order to get the primarily-Andal population of Westeros to go along with Valyrian polygamy, certain measures had to be taken. This meant the highborn ladies of the royal harem, whether full consort or concubine, had to be kept _very_ comfortable. So did their children.

That meant a major strain on the royal privy purse and a lot of difficult, corrupt practices in government.

Jon’s half-brother Aenys, for instance, is as witless as they come. But his mother is a Hightower,  so Father made him ‘Master of City Infrastructure’.

They’re still trying to rebuild Fleabottom. And Aenys still has a vague position as “advisor” to the Small Council, courtesy of Hightower and nepotism.

Jon’s Uncle Viserys was made Commander of the Gold Cloaks for a while, leading to street riots and yet more expensive damage to the city. Now he’s an ‘advisor’ too. Jon has over three dozen ‘advisors’, in fact, all named Targaryen, who owe their positions to their mothers’ families.

The Red Keep, Summerhall, and Dragonstone house countless half-siblings, half-uncles, cousins, and their families because their mothers’ families will not stand to see _their_ princes reduced to poverty or irrelevance.

And that’s just the men. At least with some of the men, you could send a few here and there to the Citadel, the Wall, or appoint them to the Kingsguard. But there are only so many princesses one can send to the Silent Sisters.

As for the rest… well, their dowries had to be considerable enough so as to not insult either their bridegroom or their mothers’ family.

There are just too many Targaryens, too much debt, and too much instability. Too many incompetent relatives “owed” important offices and titles. He doesn’t think it a coincidence that the most celebrated reign of the Targaryen kings was of Jaehaerys I, who only had one wife and never had children with his seven concubines.

A limited harem must become the practice. Jon has to break the cycle.

Aegon always agreed with him, though at the time Jon didn’t know why. But he likes to think his brother’s opinion wasn’t motivated by his proclivities alone.

So, yes, he probably would have had only one or two wives, maybe the odd concubine here and there, anyways. He intended to keep his breeding to one woman long before he ever met The Young Wolf.

This policy is very same thing as what Father intend upon wedding Elia Martell.

Until she lost her ability to give him more children, that is.

Lyanna Stark came along, Grandfather chose to force a war, and House Targaryen become more reliant on vassal support than ever.

Father needed Tywin Lannister, whose suit to marry Rhaegar to his daughter, Cersei, had been rudely rebuffed by King Aerys years earlier. He needed the Tyrells and Hightowers. He needed the Swanns, the Selmys, the Dondarrions, the Daynes, the Yronwoods, and the Conningtons to keep the Baratheons and Martells in line.

As a result, Rhaegar I took five wives and eighteen concubines in total.

The idea of royal monogamy was shelved with Rhaegar. But it is up to Jon to take it off the shelf and try it again.

It would be unpopular, but it is necessary.

That being said, it is one thing for him to make that decision on his own. It is another for the enemy king who had killed Jon’s brother and jilted Jon’s sister to demand such a thing.

While it almost gave him an excuse for his ‘trimmed harem’ policy, accepting it likely looked weak to the people around him. He knows there are whispers. He’s the son of that Stark woman. Half-wolf, half-Northern, half-breed. He does not have any Lannister, Tyrell, Hightower, or Rosby cousins behind him.

Things are a mess now. Inheriting the throne is bad enough. But the realm is simply worn thin. The miracle of Daenerys’s dragons signaled some hope, but aside from that, Targaryen advantages are small.

They simply can’t afford extended warfare with the Winter Kingdom right now. While the arrival of Daenerys’s dragons did a lot to convince King Robb to sue for peace, the dragons are growing slowly. And even if they were to suddenly swell to the size of mountains, controlling them would be a dangerous enterprise, and wielding them would cause untold devastation.

Jon isn’t stupid. He knows peace with the Winter Kingdom won’t last. But they need time, a reprieve.

And it should have gone so smoothly! Rhaenys didn’t want to spend her life in a harem anyways. It was a perfect opportunity!

Not just politically, but for his sister, as well.

The Northerners had a different approach to marriage than that of King’s Landing. A prudish version of what the Dornish practiced, really.

So while the North was cold, prudish, miserly, and underdeveloped, Jon could be sure Rhaenys would never have to fear her position as queen or the futures of her children being usurped by ambitious bastards and their families. There are no Arryn Stark Blackdragons.

Then that shitheel King jilted her, shaming her before the world, for some nobody!

The Northern policy towards marriage breeds that sort of insult, since they only ever take one bride and thus any and every impulsive choice of some knave king causes insult to any honorable intended. If the Starks took more than one bride like the Targaryens, Rhaenys would still have the honor of being ‘High Queen’ over Robb Stark’s whore by virtue of blood and rank.

But no. There’s only one consort per Stark, so Rhaenys, despite her myriad of virtues, fine lineage, and gentle nature, is now used goods.

The fact that Robb Stark would offer his sister to Jon as consolation on such terms is troubling, to say the least. Not only was the demand that Jon defy centuries’ worth of tradition utterly mad, but he wasn’t even offering a woman of sterling reputation, either.

Rhaenys lives a life of impeccable virtue, only to now be branded a reject, used goods. But this debauched woman is to be the one and only Queen of Westeros.

A cruel world.

Jon sighs, then glances at the painting propped up beside his desk.

The portrait Jon received of Princess Sansa depicts a stunning  beauty with thick auburn waves of hair, creamy skin, bow-shaped lips, high cheekbones, and sparkling blue eyes. But the reality will almost certainly be that she is some freckled, ginger plain Jeyne with crooked teeth and a gawky walk.

She’s likely willful, too, though that’s no surprise, given the fact that the wench had been apparently given free reign her entire life. There is not a woman in all of Westeros that wouldn’t leap at the chance to be the High Queen beside the Iron Throne. But rumors reached the Red Keep that his Queen-to-be had attempted to elope with her paramour and had to be dragged back to Winterfell.

Princess Sansa even refuses to write Jon. Laws of courtship mean he can’t initiate contact with his betrothed. It has to be the lady in order preserve her honor. If Jon had gotten a letter, he’d have been happy to immediately send the wench some reassurances and comfort. He even had the letter written already, to be sent off the moment he got a message from his queen-to-be officially introducing them. That introduction never came.

Clearly, she wants none of him. She’d rather bed down with some leather-clad minor lordling and live in sin.

Jon is sacrificing so much for this marriage, enduring so much ire and scorn from his subjects to make this happen peacefully. And the woman doesn’t even care to write him a line or two.

Daenerys is just the tip of the Iceberg with her unspoken jibes. Uncle Viserys is already whispering in the ears of vassals and courtiers expecting the honor and privilege of a kinswoman made royal. So is Cersei Lannister, seeking to make her Joffrey the new king.

King Jon is weak, sacrificing the centuries-old customs and natural order of the Targaryen court to appease the dishonorable, enemy dogs of Winter. Practically cuckolding himself to wed some foreign harlot, refusing the highborn, untouched maidens of Westeros the opportunity to join the royal household that is their right.

Cersei wanted Aegon, then Jon, to marry her Myrcella. She spat nails all through Aegon’s wedding to Margaery. And the Tyrells, in fact, tried to persuade Jon to take his brother’s widow --- for some mysterious reason, Margaery was left a maiden by her husband. Jon declined. After the incident with Loras, he will have none of that family.

Daenerys herself is considered ‘snubbed’ by much of the court, though there were never any arrangements for them to wed. Daenerys is a Dowager Queen now, and quite happy and comfortable with the freedoms and status that come with being a childless royal widow.

But court gossipers claim that there were arrangements, and that is enough for some. A few factions are even trying to spur the Martells into warfare, arguing that Jon’s own existence is an insult to Elia, that their one remaining Targaryen scion --- Rhaenys --- was allowed to be scorned by the Northern gods and ought to be made her half-brother’s queen to restore her family’s honor and position within the succession.

That, at least, is not working out that well. Elia and Doran Martell are sensible people. They know firsthand the toll Targaryen inbreeding has had on the health and competence of the royal family. The same reason that Father never visited Daenerys’s chambers after their wedding. Why Daenerys’s only ‘children’ are her hatchlings. Doran and Elia Martell do not consider it an ‘honor’ for Rhaenys to marry Lyanna Stark’s son and possibly mother the next Aerys the Mad.

But not everyone is so reasonable. A new king usually meant a new chance for a lord to see his grandchild on the Iron Throne. A silly expectation, considering that the majority of Targaryen kings made sure their inbred nephew-sons were their heirs. But people still remember how House Redwyne grew in prominence when Aegon the Unlikely made Alessa Redwyne his first wife and Alessa’s sons Duncan, then Jaehaerys, were the heirs to the Iron Throne. Or how close the children of Aegon the Unworthy’s second wives and concubines came to the Iron Throne amidst the ‘Blackdragon’ rebellions (the fact that this was a period of devastating warfare conveniently escapes the minds of their vassals).

But now, their new king is inexplicably marrying the tarnished daughter of their mortal enemy after her brother insulted his half-sister, and denying the true and loyal vassals of the Iron Throne a chance to produce queens, princes, and princesses by making this foreigner his only wife. And all this despite the fact that his aunt/stepmother had performed a miracle that would surely bring House Targaryen back to their proper glory.

Jon has even agreed not to take on any concubines, despite the fact that as ‘second tier’ heirs, a concubine’s son would never threaten the position of a wife’s progeny. Many lords were looking to find a comfortable home and future for their otherwise unmarriageable kinswomen -- old maids, cripples, tarnished women -- with a place in the new king’s harem. Now they’d have to convince the Silent Sisters to take more of their women instead.

Trying to explain to an Arryn Stark that the existence of concubines was in no way an insult proved impossible.

“My sister will not be one of many, a tool through which you engage your lusts, Targaryen,” Robb Stark had snarled at him over the table.

Perhaps Father, Viserys, Joffrey, Aenys, or Aegon would have spat in the ignorant knave’s face. But Jon knows better.

The Iron Throne is in debt to the Iron Bank, among others. And if the Iron Bank is not paid their policy is to fund war efforts by their debtors’ enemies.

The Royal House of Arryn Stark, however, has fat, rich coffers and trade agreements with great powers like the Thirteen, Guild of Spicers, and Tourmaline Brotherhood of Qarth and the merchant-princes of Braavos and Lys. The Winter Kingdom is primitively rural, but the sheer extent of their land means they have nearly endless resources and a modest enough population to turn a profit on what grows from their soil.

Without any allies, any kingdom could destroy the Iron Throne at this point.

Their coffers are dry and their dragons are tiny. But he doesn’t dare say that aloud.

“Why her, anyways?” Daenerys asks. “Wasn’t there another sister?”

“Princess Arya, aye. But she too is no maid. She was made second in line to the crown and raised to be a soldier.” Jon sees Daenerys’s quizzical look and shrugs. “Lax northern morals. So for all we know, she’s a glorified camp follower. To my knowledge, Sansa only ever had the one lover. I doubt she would have gone so far as to publicly cohabitate with him if he were one of many.”

He glances at the portrait. “And apparently, Sansa is the more beautiful of the two.”

Daenerys snorts and saunters over to the desk, a critical, skeptical eye on the likeness. “Remember that painting of Lollys Stokeworth where she had an actual waist, clear skin, and a full set of teeth? More beautiful’... ha! A more beautiful dog is still a dog. I saw her father once, the old King Eddard. Face like a shovel.”

King Eddard, who looked just like Jon. He cringes.

Unaware of her insult, Dany continues, “The Starks are so permissive that apparently some of their kings and queens married minor lords and even smallfolk. No pride in their bloodline. They raise the woman to think of themselves as men. She probably has snaggled teeth like my cook, shoulders wider than Ser Barristan’s, and pock-marked, scarred skin from that rough wool they all wear.”

Her tone drops and grows more serious as she tears her disdainful eyes from the canvas.

“She’s going to be trouble, Jon. I hope you know that.” Daenerys takes a seat. “She’s been raised in an unsophisticated, permissive so-called ‘court’ where she was allowed to let random lordlings into her leathers and wools. What will you do when she shows up to court in her threadbare soldier’s garb, demanding a seat on the small council or some such nonsense? How will you explain to Mace Tyrell that this entitled ginger fleabag is more worthy of being High Queen than his daughter? Margaery Tyrell would have made you a perfect main consort, and you wouldn’t have to shut all the other highborn maidens in the kingdom out of the palace to wed her.”

Jon closes his eyes. _Peace and safety are worth all the highborn maidens, Margaery Tyrell included._ “It’s not a matter of worth, Daenerys. You know that. Even Mace Tyrell likely understands that.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrow. “Will I be expected to curtsey to her? Will your poor, jilted sister? Will all of the trueborn, Valyrian blooded princesses be made to defer to this foreign whore? Your father’s widows? Will you make dragons kneel to a wolf?”

“You kneel to me as your king.” Jon says firmly. “My queen shall be part of me. We shall be one heart, one soul, one flesh. All deference I am due, she is due as well.”

Daenerys rises furiously and makes for the door. “There is only so much humiliation our kin can take, Jon.” She pauses as she reaches the door. “Well, at least there is one advantage to you wedding a harlot. She probably knows her way around the bedchamber. I just hope those Wintry charms and tricks will be worth it.”

“You’ve not been dismissed, Madam!” He shouts. _My mother was a Princess of Winter._ But he takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. “You’ll stop with that talk, Daenerys. She’s going to be High Queen. You know the protocol. You will abide by it.”

At this, his aunt bristles. “Like Hell I’m going to kowtow to that flea-ridden _slut!”_

“Enough!” He shouts, pounding his fist on his desk. _Is that how she refers to my mother when I’m not around?_ “Things have changed, Daenerys. I’m not your step-son anymore. I am your king, she is to be my queen. Do you want this family to survive? Then you will cease this. If you want to see those scaled children of yours grow larger than the average dog, you will cooperate and support me.”

Their eyes meet. Dany’s violet irises flash. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Jon replies, “An explanation.”

There’s a long, awkward silence. Daenerys retakes her seat. There’s a brief staring contest. She wants to see if he will break. But he doesn’t, and she sighs and leans back. Jon stifles a groan. This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t be having this discussion with her.

Once Daenerys was a sweet girl, meek and withdrawn, one of many princesses of the court. Jon remembers protecting her from Cersei and Viserys’s bullying.

Father had married her to give her a more protected position within the court so she’d no longer suffer their cruelty. He never touched her, obviously. But even ‘virgin’ queens were usually given some sort of duty or job within the harem or court, whether it was taking care of the children, learning a craft, or performing some sort of courtly function. But Father never asked anything of her, and never managed to see her as anything other than a sweet little girl. With exalted status as a queen and no responsibilities or obligations, Daenerys had as much free reign as any ‘foreign aurochs’. Then the eggs hatched and she became the ‘Mother of Dragons’, and packets of the court started practically worshipping her.

It’s had an effect.

These days, her belief in the exceptionalism of their bloodline, the grandeur and ‘rights’ of the Blood of the Dragon rival even Viserys.

Jon barely recognizes her anymore. Regardless, she has her own following now. Her opinion holds sway. Letting her feel included was a good way to keep the court in line.

And who else can he talk to? The two of them were close once, after all. And he’s not so insensitive as to discuss his northern marriage with Rhaenys. “I did not ask you here to listen to complaints. I’ve heard enough of that.”

“Then why am I here, _my King?”_ Her tone is mocking, but her sneer falls when she sees the look on his face.

“I want your counsel on where to go from here.”

She flips her silver hair haughtily. “You have dozens of advisors.”

“All of them men with ties to House Hightower or Swyft or Swann or Baratheon. I need a woman whose sole loyalty is to House Targaryen.” Daenerys is the daughter of Grandfather Viserys and his sister, High Queen Rhaella. She has no scheming uncles. This explanation is apparently insufficient, though. Jon sighs. “And you’re cleverer than them.”

To her credit, Daenerys does adopt a more serious attitude. “This bride of yours will have to be handled carefully, I can tell you that.”

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. _No shit._ “Meaning?”

“The Winter Kingdom is different. Your bride was given an actual government post and allowed to have a live-in lover. If the rumors are true, she’s already tried to jilt you. No woman of this realm would try such a thing, not even _I_ would. She’s not only going to become a woman of this realm, she’s going to be Queen of it. The High Queen. She’ll have to learn what that means, and quickly.” Daenerys glances at the portrait again. “Unless you want to die at the hands of Viserys III, Aenys II, or Joffrey I, you’ll teach her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone thinks Jon and Dany come off sexist and elitist... Yeah, that's by design. Their upbringings have shaped them.
> 
> Jon and Sansa meet next chapter!


	3. Princesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives at the Red Keep and everyone prepares for the welcome banquet.

Sansa:

She’s seasick during the first stretch of her voyage and is given a tonic to help her sleep.

Sansa’s never been the most traditional sleeper. From birth, she was trained to be a Dauphin, to devote her every moment to making sure her family’s people were fed, clothed, sheltered, and able to go about their lives and trades unperturbed. Once she turned six, she was put on “The Dauphin’s Schedule” --- a lifestyle of naps where they could be found, but up at various odd hours.

The period between her being dragged back to Winterfell and her departure was the first time she was kept to a traditional sleeping schedule, really.

As with all other Dauphins-to-be, she started attending council meetings as soon as she was old enough to walk, talk, and keep quiet and still for an hour. For female Dauphins-in-training, that was usually judged after the princess had both mastered certain sewing projects and a proper curtsey. As it turned out, her particular disposition --- a perfect lady --- meant that such a custom began when she was three.

By the time she was 7, she was brought into “emergency” meetings --- ones that did not take place at the usual scheduled times, and many of those started --- and carried on--- into late hours.

While other children were coached into having a set bedtime, Sansa was trained under a different discipline --- to sleep when she could. That was any time she wasn’t being trained in statecraft, martial pursuits like riding, basic academics, and the womanly arts. The kingdom does not retire and rise with the sun, and neither could its Dauphin.

It was for this reason that Dauphins frequently did not marry. It was, after all, hard to maintain a traditional family life when one is responsible at all hours to draft laws, dispense justice, oversee trade, and such for half a continent. It was almost rare for a female Dauphin to wed, let alone wed a man with his own title or inheritance, since the job left little time or opportunity to be a proper lady wife to one’s own vassal. Aside from special circumstances, a wife was expected to answer to her lord husband (especially if, indeed, he was a full lord), but a peer of Winter had to answer to their Dauphin.

Dauphins and their spouses, even a couple of female ones, had managed throughout history, but even then their marriages had been difficult. Thus, most women in her position usually didn’t bother, resigning themselves happily to spinsterhood.

Indeed, growing up, Sansa became the subject of jokes among her people. As she reached maturity and her looks continued to blossom, she became known as Princess/Dauphin Sansa the Wasted. People decried the gods for making the second-born look like her. “Kinder to have given her a harelip and pocked skin!”

At least with the beautiful Lyanna, she was never slated for the office, and could marry freely. But Sansa seemed a beauty fated to die a maiden (at least, one on paper).

So widespread was this wisdom that when Sansa first flowered, she became a sort of ‘game’ among the young lordlings of the Winter Kingdom.

While female Dauphins rarely wed, it is known that many were only ‘maidens’ in the legal sense. Several of them, such as her Great-great-aunt Alys, famously had “favorites”. Sometimes they were lords and heirs in their own right who still had wives. Sometimes they were lordlings, younger sons of younger sons never to inherit anything, free to go childless. There were other cases --- popular rumors --- about great-great-great-great Aunt Lynara, who was apparently _very_ close to her Mistress of the Wardrobe. These women drank their moon tea and no issues arose. One of Sansa’s ancestresses even birthed a bastard.

So, with an newly-flowered Dauphin to be, the young (and not so young) gentlemen of the Winter Aristocracy saw a sort of game or challenge. A Dauphin’s ‘favorites’ often gained some power and influence. Sansa was beautiful, of age, and known to be virtuous, innocent, and dutiful. So an informal game sprung up, complete with wagers, over who would be the first to deflower the king’s second eldest.

It was for these reasons that when Sansa first met Domeric Bolton at her fourteenth name day banquet, she tried as hard as she could to resist her attraction to him.

She was resolute that she’d never be any man’s mistress, and had, much as many of her predecessors had, resigned herself to spinsterhood. Knowledge of the mass-wager among the so-called ‘gentlemen’ of her father’s court soured her further on ever taking favorites. As much as she enjoyed tales of romance, to her, that was all they were: tales. As for her physical desires, by that age, she’d taught herself to handle those personally, and she’d heard enough from disappointed handmaidens and newlywed highborn brides that a man was not necessarily going to fulfill those as well as she could anyways.

As far as Sansa was concerned, she was wife and mistress to her kingdom.

Domeric was shy, despite his high birth and family history. The Boltons were famously powerful, ruthless, and dangerous, and among the strongest of the Winter Lords. Domeric was the only trueborn son of Lord Bolton, to inherit the vast fortress of the Dreadfort and its surrounding lands, as well as the sigil of the Flayed Man. Lord Roose Bolton, his father, was a famously wicked and terrifying man. Sansa had nearly shrunk beneath his cold, colorless gaze many a time.

But his son couldn’t be more different. His eyes were not that nearly-white, corpselike blue, but bright, expressive, soulful green. He was quiet, almost gentle, and unpretentious. He’d been raised first as ward and cupbearer to his aunt, Lady Dustin, then as a squire to Lord Redfort in the Vale.

Domeric was pushed toward Sansa by his father, but not for the purpose of a conquest, necessarily. The Dauphin was often the one tasked with arranging royal marriages and at twelve, Arya was nearing marriageable age. Thus, there were two prospects open to a young lordling: favorite to a Dauphin, or a princess bride. Since heirs and lords who became favorites of a Dauphin usually struggled, a match with Arya was more suitable for the heir to the Dreadfort.

And that was what Sansa tried to keep in mind as they danced and spoke: Domeric’s suitability to be _Arya’s_ husband.

Personality-wise, though, Domeric couldn’t be a worse suitor. He was skilled in arms and an incredible horseman, but otherwise, had little to interest Sansa’s sister. The only thing he liked as much as riding was playing the harp and composing music. He adored reading, history, legends, and only excelled somewhat at fighting because it was expected of him. He had little love for war or any sort of fighting, really. He preferred dancing to swordplay, and even took up certain crafts as hobbies. He was as accomplished as anyone could hope, but disposed towards pacifism and soft power.

Arya summed him up as ‘A ninny, but good in the saddle.’

Worst of all, he was a dreadful romantic. While Sansa tried to resist her feelings for him upon their introduction, he retired that evening to write her a poem. The first of many, in fact.

Sansa resisted. He was to be Lord Bolton someday, after all. There was no future for them.

But Uncle Benjen took a shine to Domeric and appointed him Winterfell’s Master of the Horse. Thus, Sansa saw him regularly. She made a point of laying out her position to the new stablemaster almost immediately: she was not a piece of “forbidden fruit” to win, she was no one’s mistress, and she would never marry. There was no future for them, regardless of what they might feel.

“So you do feel something then,” Domeric replied, smirking as he inspected the hooves of Mother's new palfrey

She’d gone red at that. “I’m not saying I do. Only that I find you very charming and could, possibly develop feelings for you. But even if I do, nothing can come of it.”

“Right. But I’m afraid, Your Excellency, that I already have developed feelings for you. Still, I respect your decision and office, and will be content with your friendship. Just know that it shall be a very loving friendship on my part.”

That made her go even redder, and she departed, her stomach in knots.

Domeric did, indeed, show respect, not taking any liberties. But he also kept his promise of being a very devoted friend. He personally saw to her horse and even began training one of the finer new palfreys for her use. And despite everything, Sansa found herself confiding in him often, having him accompany her on her rides. At one point, when her father and uncle informed her that she would soon be taking active office, she forgot herself and asked Domeric to serve as her personal secretary.

“That,” he said, his lip curling, “Might be a bit too dangerous, My Princess.”

He was right, of course. Sansa had scolded herself for such foolishness and appointed Jeyne Poole, daughter to the palace steward Vayon Poole, instead.

When she was six-and-ten, her new palfrey was trained and Domeric took her out for the first ride. The mare, whom Sansa named Cherry for her coat, was a fast, spirited, yet perfectly trained stead. The first ride was revelatory, with Sansa racing through the Wolfswood at speeds she’d never reached before.

She returned to the palace utterly breathless, thrilled, even senseless. Domeric helped her off the saddle and before Sansa knew it, she was kissing him.

Before she knew it, she’d given up entirely. Instead of fighting her feelings, she began guiding her policies as Dauphin to make her role a little more suited for a private life. She began creating new offices in order to delegate more duties and power. Of course, she made sure to only do this in a way that benefited the realm, but she still did it.

Even then, though, she had reservations. A lord husband was expected to have a subservient Lady Wife. As Dauphin, she couldn’t give that to him.

“I’m not sure I could stomach sharing you with a wife,” she told him one afternoon in her chambers.

He’d smiled at her, “Then don’t. Be my wife.”

“That’s impossible. You’re to be Lord Bolton. You need a proper Lady Bolton to answer to you. I can’t do that.”

“Who says I need my wife to submit?”

Sansa had been shocked by this. It was just the popular logic.

“As I see it,” Domeric said, tracing the curves of her chest and neck with his fingertips, “I would be able to do more for my fiefdom having the Dauphin’s ear than I would ordering a lady wife around. There are plenty of marriages that dispense with that tradition. Why shouldn’t we?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Sansa asked.

“If it’s good enough for Lady Mormont’s husband, it’s good enough for me. Just so long as you and the children take my name, what should it matter?”

“We’ll have to wait until Robb has an heir.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

They considered themselves husband and wife from that day onward. The actual marriage would come when Sansa was an aunt and they could start having children. Domeric took up residence in her chambers, much to the chagrin of the court, and Sansa announced a betrothal.

There were doubters, of course, but few who were passionate enough to interfere when they saw her happiness with him. Besides, no one had much right to interfere with the Dauphin’s personal affairs as long as it didn’t affect their service to the kingdom.

And Sansa was an exemplary Dauphin. She’d created a new order of judges and guards to settle disputes and criminal activities throughout the kingdom, which left the whole process more streamlined and personalized for each region. Transportation had been improved through her road and sea route systems. She organized several highly advantageous trade agreements with Braavos, Lys, Qarth, and Pentos. Harvests were more sumptuous than ever.

She would have her duty and her happiness.

She should have had that. Oftentimes, her duty _was_ her happiness. Not even her lover’s singing could touch her heart the way the smile of a grateful subject or a hungry crowd settling into a large meal did.

She’s so far from them all now, though. Retching on a ship carrying her away forever.

Her ladies press cold compresses to her brow and in her illness, she dreams of Domeric.

Before him, she saw riding as merely an unpleasant means of exercise and getting from one place to another. A necessary activity that left her sore and sweaty.

But her lover showed her the true nobility of horses, the deep wisdom one could find atop their backs, and the beauty one could see with them. Riding with him taught her to see the lands she governed with new eyes, made her a better ruler as well as rider.

And none of that mattered now.

She dreams of being in the saddle with Cherry, racing Dom around the Wintertown limits. She dreams of his laughter and kind eyes. She dreams of his reedy voice.

Horsemanship wasn’t all he taught her, either. Sansa always adored music, but her duties meant she had little time to perfect her skills on the High Harp. Once Domeric was installed in her chambers, he gave her late night lessons. He’d put his arms around her and guide her hands as she played, his embrace warm and safe. Her heart would dance with delight as she began to produce perfectly-tuned sweetness from the strings. The music would drown out her frazzled, worried thoughts.

After a while, she and Dom began performing duets for the court after dinner, playing and singing old standards and even his own compositions. He always wrote the loveliest verses for her to sing.

Sansa will never sing them again. She hasn't even brought her lyric sheets. They'll only haunt her.

She dreams of evenings in the Great Hall, her with her harp, him with his lute, surrounded by an enraptured court, singing one of his songs. They are side by side as they start, and all is normal, but as the song goes on, a distance develops between them, the hall grows hotter, and Domeric’s singing grows fainter. Sansa tries to get closer, even interrupts the song to cry out about the heat. But nothing happens. Soon, she finds herself far from everyone in the Hall --- Arya, Bran, Uncle Benjen, Jeyne, everyone… Robb bursts in and shouts and suddenly, she’s falling through the floor of the hall, towards a flaming abyss.

She dreams of that awful, awful day when she was brought into the Great Hall. Jory was the one to lead her in, and looked none too honored by it. “I’m so sorry, Your Excellency,” he’d whispered, “But if it’s not me, your brother might choose someone rougher.”

In fact, all of the guards there looked apologetic. Sansa reluctantly walked in, head held high. But she nearly fell to the floor when she saw the royal dais. Her brother, in his crown, stood before the throne, his steel bared. A block had been brought in, and Domeric was kneeling over it, neck in place.

In reality, Robb let Domeric go when she agreed to wed Jon Targaryen. But in her dreams, she agrees only to have the blade fall anyways. Dom’s head falls and rolls off the dais to her feet, his green eyes look up at her, as cold and lifeless as his father’s near-white stare.

Despite her lack of control over the situation, Sansa feels like she’s abandoning her people. She is supposed to be their Dauphin, their caretaker, their statesman, their advocate. It’s all she’s ever known. Now, she won’t be making sure villages are protected, rights are upheld, and bellies were filled.

She’ll be… what? Spawning lizards for the enemy?

Sansa feels like a deserter. Her dreams about Domeric being beheaded aren’t just about him, but about the whole Winter Kingdom.

She’ll never forgive Robb for making her feel this way.

Their ship stops at Gulltown, commerce capital of the Vale, and it is there she meets with some dignitaries from the Targaryen court led by a blind old maester of the Citadel who introduced himself as “Grand Maester Aemon.” He greets her in the entry hall of the main Keep belonging to the Branch Arryns of Gulltown.

Sansa’s eyes narrow at this name. “Aemon is a Targaryen name, is it not?”

“Indeed, My Princess,” the old man says, bowing, “Before completing my chain I was Prince Aemon of House Targaryen, son of King Maekar and his third wife, Queen Dyanna. I am great-great-grand-Uncle to His Grace King Jon.”

The Citadel is one of the few neutral zones in the Winter-Iron Throne conflicts.

“It is an honor to meet you.” Sansa tries to think if Grand Maester Luwin ever mentioned attending the Citadel with a Targaryen prince. It isn’t hard to guess how and why this particular student ascended to such a height, though. While the Citadel produces healers and counsellors for both kingdoms, it is located in Oldtown, the domain of the Hightowers, sworn to the Tyrells, a Targaryen vassal.

“I doubt it!” Aemon says with a surprising brightness, “You’re a creature of courtesy, Princess Sansa, I can hear it. But I do not hear any enthusiasm in your voice.” He steps forward and reaches for her hand, ostensibly to kiss. Reluctantly, she gives it, but he pats it with his hand, not his lips. “Do not fear, My Lady. Despite what some of my more witless relatives claim, we Targaryens are not dragons in truth. Neither I nor my grand-nephew breathe fire.”

“Not directly,” Sansa replies, unamused.

“Eh?”

“Your… grand-nephew, was it? Aerys II, he did not breathe fire directly, but when he howled and gave the order, my uncle and grandfather burned all the same. Oh, and I’m to be addressed as ‘Your Excellency.’”

“Indeed, _Your Excellency,_ ” replies the Maester, levity dying from his withered face, “But Aerys is dead. His grandson did not summon you to King’s Landing to burn you, I promise.”

Sansa resists the urge to speak disparagingly of a Targaryen’s promise. After all, the whole reason she is here is because her brother broke his.

“Sam!” Maester Aemon suddenly calls, turning his head this way and that, “Come forward and get a good look at our well-informed High-Queen-to-be!”

A fat young man in a citadel neophyte’s robe rushes forward, flanked by a tall, handsome gentleman a couple years younger. Both young men stare at her for a moment.

“Well?” The Grand Maester snaps, “Is she as comely as she is educated?”

“M-more so, I imagine, Grand Maester Aemon.”

“Meaning?”

The neophyte Sam blushes. “She is very beautiful indeed, Ser. More lovely even than her portrait.”

“I never saw her portrait,” Aemon snaps, “Paint me my own picture with words.”

Red as a tomato, the fat man continues. “Erm, dark red hair, long and wavy. _Very_ tall, as tall as the king, I’d say. Creamy skin. Full, pink lips. Big, sapphire eyes. High cheekbones. Long neck. Er…. _elegant_ figure.”

Sansa glances at her ladies, somewhat amused until the other gentleman speaks up. Randa Royce makes a rude gesture with her hands and Sansa must stifle a giggle.

“She’s got full breasts and nice, wide hips for birthing,” the handsome young man cuts in brusquely, “And she’s clearly quite healthy. She should be able to give the king many strong sons and bonny daughters.”

Sansa bristles at this. Beth and Jeyne gasp and Lyra reaches for the dirk at her belt. Sansa raises a hand. “How dare you speak of a lady thus?”

“I dare when that lady is to be the _sole_ mother to our king’s children.” The young man replies sharply, “It’s a pressing issue.”

“That’s enough, Dickon!” Grand Maester Aemon snaps, annoyed. But not too annoyed to have stopped Dickon until after he’d provided a full description of Sansa’s body, she notices. “Show some respect. She is to be our High Queen.”

She and the Targaryen envoys rendezvous the next day aboard a royal barge to King’s Landing. On the voyage, Aemon makes some weak attempts to get to know her, but has to be reminded repeatedly to address her as ‘Your Excellency’ and gives up after a couple of days.

Sansa remains in her cabin, uncomfortable with how the Targaryen men look at her. They size her up like a cut of meat, those that can see. They look at her like cattle.

 _I am now,_ she reflects bitterly, _I’m a broodmare._

This feeling does not improve once they reach Blackwater Bay. She rides through the city streets atop Cherry, gowned in her House colors of ivory, silver, and aqua. Most of the crowds cheer as her household distributes alms, but every so often they pass a pocket of men and women crying out “No foreign queen for us!”

Sam, the only one of the Targaryen party that doesn’t make her feel like an animal, rides up alongside and assures her that those cries mean nothing. “Certain members of the court seeking to undermine the king probably paid them.”

Sansa looks at the maester-in-training. “Oh? Are there many in your court like that?”

Sam reddens and looks away, silent as the grave. An answer in the affirmative, however unwitting. _Interesting._

She’s no stranger to intrigue and factions within a court, of course. The Brackens have always hated the Blackwoods. The Forresters have always tried to undermine the Whitehills. And so on and so forth. But never has she heard of anyone actively working against the king himself.

 _But then, with so many Targaryens being inbred, no doubt rivals spring up._ Her betrothed is half-Arryn Stark himself. _Perhaps there are some “pure” Targaryens who would prefer the succession go by blood quota._

They reach the castle gates and Sansa braces herself as they enter the courtyard.

But nothing could prepare her for what she sees when she looks to the center of the welcoming party.

The man wearing the crown is no silver-haired, purple eyed thing. No, in fact, his appearance leaves her breathless and shaking. It’s like she’s seeing a ghost.

A ghost of King Eddard VII Arryn Stark.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

He’s not prepared for her, as it turns out. For weeks, he’s geared his expectations towards disappointment. He told himself that while Princess Sansa might possess some prettiness, she would likely fall far short of the vision her portrait depicted. The Wintermen spoke of her as a great beauty, but Jon is skeptical of their standards. Their women are brewers and whalers, for pity’s sake. One of his bride’s own ladies-in-waiting has even dyed her hair _green._

But if anything, the painting undersold her. Her hair is a deeper, more vivid red than expected. Her cheekbones are finer, her lips fuller. Her eyes are a deep blue that possess a mysterious, haunted sort of vulnerability. And her figure…

Everyone who knew his mother, including his father, spoke of Lyanna Arryn Stark as a ‘boyish’ beauty. Jon always accepted this, as masculine adjectives often applied to women of the Winter Kingdom.

There’s nothing boyish or masculine about Sansa Arryn Stark whatsoever, save for perhaps her height. The gown she wears is high-necked and on any other woman might seem dowdy. But so impressive are the narrowness of her waist and the curves of her hips and bosom that no gown could obscure them. Every move she makes, even as she dismounts from her red palfrey, looks like part of a dance.

No wonder Robb Arryn Stark seemed so hesitant to release her. His sister has the sort of looks that might make even a proud Winterman consider a divine blood match.

 _If Robb had jilted Rhaenys for this woman,_ _I might have been more forgiving._ He feels ashamed of himself for that thought. But he’s just… taken aback.

A pretty young Winter Woman steps forward, head held high. “Presenting Her Excellency, Princess Sansa Arryn Stark, Dauphin of the Winter Kingdom!”

That title was written in the correspondence. Jon tried to find out what it meant, but hadn’t been able to get a good explanation of just what a ‘Dauphin’ was. Uncle Aemon claims it is the Winter equivalent of ‘Hand of the King’, but that makes no sense.

Jon steps forward, though, as his own herald announces him. “His Grace Jon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Rightful King of the Seven Realms of Westeros, Lord of the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone, and Protector of the Realm.”

The princess’s eyes seem to flicker when the First Men and the Seven Realms are mentioned. Jon takes a deep breath and approaches her, ignoring the fact that she nor any of her party kneel or even bow to him.

He’ll try whatever charm he possesses first. Jon stops short before his intended and smiles, holding out his hand for hers. She reluctantly gives it and Jon presses it to his lips.

“It is an honor, My Lady. My men told me to expect a beauty, but not even the loftiest rumors did you justice.”

She just stares, looking almost frightened. Still, it doesn’t stop her from replying, “Your Excellency” in a defiant tone.

“Ah, no, here in the South,” Jon hurries to correct her, “Kings are called ‘Your Grace.’”

“Not you, me.” She replies, “Kings are addressed as ‘Your Grace’ in the Winter Kingdom as well, Your Grace. But Dauphins are addressed as ‘Your Excellency.’ That is how I’m properly greeted. Did you not hear my herald? She announced me as such.”

Jon’s blood quickens in embarrassment. Just what he needs, his new foreign wife undermining him in front of the whole court upon their first meeting. She hasn’t even been here five minutes.

“Pardon me, My Lady,” he responds, “We are unfamiliar with the concept of Dauphins in the South.”

“The Dauphin is the main administrator and homestead governor of the Winter Kingdom,” the princess explains, as if he were a child, “As the king guards our borders, the Dauphin ensures the kingdom functions, dispenses justice, conducts diplomacy, supervises infrastructure, and designates the day-to-day goings on of the realm. I have served as Dauphin for nearly ten years now.”

“But now you’re marrying me,” Jon responds, stunned. _Aemon was right?_ _But she…_ Well, no matter. “Surely you’re not going to govern the Winter Kingdom from here.”

“I officially shed my office and title upon becoming your queen,” admits his betrothed, “But not until then.”

Jon smiles. He understands now. This was how the Winter Kings kept their princesses in check. _Give her a fancy title and some small office, give her something to do until she marries._ It reminds him of what he’s doing with Daenerys. “Of course, forgive me, _Your Excellency.”_

She notes the condescension in his voice, judging by the look she gives him. But she nods.

“I can forgive this breach of protocol, I suppose,” she says, implying that there are other grievances left that she hasn’t forgiven. Her father’s death is likely one of them. Jon can’t afford to have her list them, though, so he offers his arm and turns to face the court, smiling.

“My lords and ladies of the Iron Throne!” He calls out, “Behold, your High Queen to be! Her Excellency is even more beautiful than was claimed, and refined and gentle as well! I believe Princess Sansa shall make a finer High Queen than I could have hoped. Truly, a great day for Westeros!”

The court cheers, but with varying conviction. Dissatisfied, Jon raises their joined hands above their head, encouraging the cheers. He glances at his bride-to-be and finds her face a stoic, cold mask.

He looks back out at the assembly and finds Elia and Rhaenys in the crowd. Both of them look concerned. His gaze flies to Viserys, who smirks and nudges a similarly-amused looking Cersei Lannister.

Jon then looks to Daenerys, whose gaze practically burns. _Do something._

He grunts and whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “Do you mind? These are your new people, and they like to see a happy bride.”

The princess fixes an overbearing, exaggerated grin to her face which, if anything, is worse than the emotionless mask. She waves ludicrously, even bats her eyelashes, mocking him and everyone around them.

Jon lowers their hands and dismisses most of the court. “You’re to be stationed in the Maidenvault---”

“---The Maiden _vault_?” She lets out a cold, mirthless laugh, “Really?!”

“It’s the section of the harem designated for royal maidens,” Jon replies, not getting the joke and not liking it one bit, “There is a special suite of apartments for prospective High Queens. It was home to my grandmother, Queen Mother Rhaella, my stepmother, Dowager High Queen Elia, and my brother Aegon’s bride, Dowager Princess Margaery Tyrell, prior to their nuptials. I am sure you’ll find them more than satisfactory.”

She gives a sardonic little snort. Jon grits his teeth.

“After the wedding, you’ll have the entire Queensvault to yourself,” he informs her. _That_ had caused no small furor among the harem. But then, the move to the Widowvault rarely made any of the queens happy. But they were used to giving up their quarters to more than one woman. Daenerys had helped him with this, however, with the promise of having her _own_ widow’s quarters expanded.

The princess nods, clearly uninterested. Jon fumes.

“The welcoming banquet is tonight,” he informs her, “Please dress festively. My subjects may find it heartening if you were to wear a gown in the Southern style. But the evening after that, I’d like to take a private supper with you in my chambers.”

At this, she looks alarmed. “I see,” she says through gritted teeth.

Before Jon can ask what she means, she dips into a curtsey and asks to be allowed to ‘settle in’. Eager to be parted from her, Jon grants it.

He confers with his ministers upon leaving her presence.

“She’s nothing like your mother,” Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Master-at-arms, remarks, “Quite lovely, I think.”

 _Implying my mother was not lovely._ Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“She’s still got a bit of that icy resolve in her, though,” Uncle Aemon states, “I spoke with her as much as I could on the journey here. She is wary of us, somewhat difficult, and she clearly holds grudges. At our first meeting she mentioned the deaths of her grandfather and uncle at the Mad King’s hands. She kept to her own retinue and was adamant that she be addressed as some absurd style---”

“---Your Excellency,” Jon says, “And everyone is to adhere to her wishes on that subject until the wedding, is that understood?”

The council all look surprised. “But, Your Grace---” Lord Tyrell interjects.

“We’re going to be better than our adversaries,” Jon says firmly, “They insulted our princess, but we shall not stoop to their level. If it keeps the she-wolf tame for now, call her what she wants. We have far more important things to address without some frivolous conflict over a title.”

Aenys, the idiot, speaks up, “Do you really think it matters? This is not the rebel kingdom. She’s just a princess.”

Jon fixes his half-brother with a cold stare. Aenys is silver-haired and violet eyed, and very much a believer in Targaryen exceptionalism. Despite his Hightower mother, he is a prime example of the family inbreeding.

“She is the Key to the Winter Kingdom, Brother. And believe it or not, pleasing her does matter to some extent. I’d rather talk my way into her bed than force my way into it, believe it or not. Not least because if I do the latter, her mongrel brother will march and try to break down our borders.”

“Let the dog-king come!” Aenys declares, still an idiot.

“I had no idea you were so willing to face the Young Wolf in open combat, Brother,” Jon declares wryly, “If you truly think this is the way to go, then I shall be happy to give you the finest opportunity to handle the fallout of your wisdom.”

Aenys’s face goes as white as his hair as the other councilors laugh. He shrinks back and says not another word.

“Still,” Lord Rosby says, folding his hands over his impressive belly, “If what the Grand Maester says is true, then the princess may prove difficult after all. And, pardon me, Your Grace, but you do need an heir. We’ve all heard rumors of the willfulness of Winter women. How can we be sure she’ll be… amenable?”

“Well, if the _other_ rumors about _this_ Winter Woman are true,” Viserys interrupts, eyes flashing, “Getting her to open her legs shouldn’t be a problem.”

There are a few snorts. Jon rises, glaring at his uncle.

“That’s enough, Viserys,” he snarls, cursing the man’s presence in this chamber, “She is to be your High Queen. And I will hear no more words besmirching her virtue in this court, from anyone. Understand?”

He glares around at them all. Everyone, he is relieved to see, nods meekly. Even Viserys, although he grits his teeth as he does.

Jon takes a deep breath. “According to every account I’ve heard of her, she’s as dutiful as she is attractive. Quite devoted to her people, by all reports. Even in the Winter Kingdom, the duty of a wife is well-known. I am confident she’ll fulfill hers. But it would give _me_ no small amount of personal relief if she came to my bed as a happy as possible. If not… Well, if she’s not happy, I won’t be. If I’m not, none of you will be, either. It costs none of you a thing to honor this particular custom, so honor it. Let the Arryn Stark woman have her little victory.” He pauses, then forces a smirk to his lips. “In a few weeks, I can bring her to her knees.”

There is some laughter, even a whistle from one of his many, many ministers.

Exhausted, Jon departs soon after to prepare for the welcoming banquet. He tries to cheer himself. Perhaps her attitude ---and her attitude towards Uncle Aemon --- is merely the result of travel weariness. Once she’s settled in and rested, she’ll likely be more agreeable.

And he told her to dress for the occasion. He’s eager to see how she looks in a Southern style gown. The Winter fashion she wore is for cold weather: thick, high-collared, and fur-lined. He could tell even through her collar that she had a very long, very elegant neck. He’d like to see it bare above a southern collar.

Perhaps she might even dress in the Reach style, with a plunging neckline, and he’d get to see some of her chest. He gives an order to a couple pages to go to Dowager Princess Margaery to ask her to help Sansa dress. “Tell her I’d be grateful if she’d lend my lady a gown if it proves necessary.”

Margaery arrived to court with a wardrobe that rivaled even Queen Cersei’s, set to be displayed in her capacity as High-Queen-to-be. But her premature widowhood meant she now had more gowns than she could possibly know what to do with. His Tyrell good-sister had been eager for a chance to gain some royal favor, though.

Jon sees no harm in presenting her an opportunity. Encouraging Tyrell ambitions now that they’d been a bit humbled would likely be beneficial. The more support he acquired for this marriage, the more support he acquired personally.

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

“Wear this one, and I’m sure the king will not be able to take his eyes off of you.” Margaery Tyrell, boasting almond-shaped dark eyes and soft brown hair, holds a sky-blue brocade up against her body and stares at it wistfully. “It’s not so very different in color from Arryn aqua, is it?”

This gets Sansa’s attention. Her House incorporated the colors, sigils, and words of both of the founding families --- the white and silver direwolf of House Stark and the white and aqua crescent and falcon of House Arryn. The two sigils had been intertwined for so long that many of her own subjects don’t even remember which originated with which. But this daughter of the Reach, marriage prize to a dragon, does.

Dowager Princess Margaery had danced into her chambers, on invitation from the king, trailed by a succession of servants carrying a parade of silks and samites. Sansa had thought her either ridiculous, or dangerous. Now, she leans more towards dangerous.

“It is,” Sansa states, surveying the silk from her dressing table, “I felt it important to don the colors of my House for my introduction today, but in truth, I tend to favor darker, richer colors. Navy, burgundy, charcoal, plum, forest green and the like.”

Margaery’s face falls and she glances back at the selection she’s brought. They’re all bright, gleaming springtime and summer hues befitting a daughter of Highgarden. “I have a few mourning dresses, but they’d never do. And I know the king is eager to see you dressed as a lady of the Iron Throne.”

 _I am not a lady of the Iron Throne,_ Sansa thinks angrily, not for the first time this day.

She exchanges a look with Jeyne, her Chief Lady, and with Beth Cassel and Lyra Mormont. Jeyne and Beth blush, eyeing Lady Margaery’s gowns. The nearly all of them have a parted, open bodice that plunges nearly to the navel, or lack proper sleeves. All of them seem to expose the shoulders. For women of the cold north, these seem less like gowns and more like shifts.

Sansa once wore something like the dress Margaery holds up. But only under her gown, and in her chambers, on Dom’s Name Day.

She supposes it’s natural for a woman used to a warm climate to dress in a slighter fashion. But there’s one problem…

“If you don’t mind me asking, Your Grace---”

“---Oh! You’re sweet, but I’m not a ‘Grace’,” Margaery says, with no small trace of bitterness in her voice. Sansa represses a smile. She knew this, of course, but she wanted to gauge the other woman’s reaction. The daughter of Highgarden continues. “Aegon died before either of us came close to the throne. If anything, you could say I’m the least ‘graceful’ woman in the harem!”

“I’m sure that’s not true, My Lady,” Sansa offers, watching her guest put the gown aside and clasp her hands.

“I was never a queen, high or otherwise, I mothered no princes or princesses, and I’m not a princess of the blood,” Margaery explains, “I had some status when Aegon was still alive, of course, as the next High Queen. And if I’d conceived, then… Well, even if I’d merely produced a princess, I’d have a firm connection to a blood princess at least, and have the status of one. But no. Aegon left me a widow without a babe in my belly. So I am the lowest in status among full wives, without husband, blood, or babe to bolster me. Practically a retired concubine in terms of rank. When Aegon died, so did my status at court.”

She seems to mourn her status more than her husband. But Sansa’s heart aches for her. She knows what it feels like to prepare for something promised to you and have it torn away.

“You’re still so young, though,” she says softly, “Your father is Lord of the Reach. Surely---”

“The king wishes to keep me close,” Margaery says. “I am his to do with until he decides to release me.”

Now, Sansa truly feels pity. _We’re both prisoners._ But still, she must be wary. And this fact is worth noting. “Any idea why?” Realizing how suspicion the question sounds, she follows it up with, “He… He isn’t planning on making you his concubine, is he?”

Better Margaery think Sansa insecure about her own status than know the true motive behind the questions. The court of Jon Targaryen is a puzzle, and Sansa is already trying to put the pieces together.

“Oh, Sweetling, no!” Margaery hurries over and gives Sansa an unexpected, brief embrace. The Daughter of Highgarden pulls back and laughs. “The King hasn’t so much as looked my way since Aegon’s death. I remind him too much of my brother Loras, I think. And he and Loras did not get along. He just…” She stops short and eyes Sansa curiously.

“He likes to have a Tyrell presence at court,” she finally says, “However low their rank.”

 _I’m surprised such a high-ranking lord as your father doesn’t already provide that,_ Sansa wants to say. But that would arouse too much suspicion. Margaery Tyrell is no fool.

“I see.” Sansa nods and glances at one of the… sparest… of Margaery’s gowns. “I must ask you, Princess,” she says, noting the spark of pride that comes to her new friend’s face at being addressed as such, “With how… open… your gowns seem to be, how do manage to stay… restrained? How are you able to move and dance freely?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as dowdy as you may find my dresses---”

“---Oh, no, of course n---”

“---They are at least very secure in the bodice department. It would never occur to me in a Winter gown, for instance, that I might lean over too far and expose myself. But with such plunging necklines, I can’t help but imagine that such a danger is omnipresent in your mind.”

She knows this because of the shift she wore for Domeric’s last Name Day, which boasted a very similar design. She’d been pouring them both wine in her quarters when her right breast sprung out. Her lover did not mind.

But unless the court of the Iron Throne was _far_ more permissive than she’d been led to believe, she doubts such an incident would be tolerated in public.

The Dowager Princess turns a pretty shade of pink. “Well, one must wear the proper undergarments, of course.” She pauses, glances at Sansa’s chest, and swallows. “And, if necessary, have adequate pinnings.”

“...Pinnings?”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid my chemises might not be able to handle your bosom on their own. In cases like that, pins are brought in and---”

Sansa swallows the bile rising in her throat. “I am not, under _any_ circumstances, going to stick _pins_ in my breasts!”

_What kind of place have I come to, where women are expected to skewer their flesh just so onlookers could ogle it better?_

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“I utterly refuse to get used to it!” Sansa insists, revolted. “No, Princess Margaery, with all due respect, I would prefer to stick to one of my Winter gowns.”

“That is of course your prerogative, Your Excellency.” Sansa notices how deliberately Margaery employs her proper style. “But I’m afraid you’ll look like an old granny, or a septa. People will speculate that you have horrible marks or that you stuff your girdle or something.”

Sansa groans and thinks. She’s more likely to make headway if she’s seen as respecting _some_ of their traditions. So she mentally catalogues her wardrobe.

“Jeyne, fetch me my Tully gown and my sewing kit.”

Jeyne brings out the dress, a carefully crafted, loving tribute to Sansa’s mother’s family, of navy and scarlet velvet and silver samite.

The Dowager Princess looks perplexed when she sees the high, bibbed collar of silver samite trout. “But that---”

Her complaint dies in her throat when Sansa takes out the scissors and hacks the entire silver bib and neckline from the bodice, including the capped shoulders. Her ladies gasp. Sansa then removes the sash… a ribbon shaped like a chain of silver trout. She hands the ribbon and the gown off to Beth. “Sew the sash along the new neckline so it has a properly trimmed hem. I’ll wear the belt Grandfather Hoster gave me with it.”

“Your Excellency,” Beth offers nervously, “Perhaps you might wear the sapphire collar as well?”

The collar she refers to was one of Mother’s heirlooms. It was thick, heavy, almost a bib on its own.

“No,” Sansa replies, “No necklace. But I will wear the chandelier earrings.”

Jeyne looks stricken. “Will you at least wear your hair down, then, Your Excellency?”

“Of course.” Sansa considers this for a moment. “With my mother’s diadem as well.”

“Queen Catelyn wore that to her wedding!” Jeyne exclaims. “Are you sure you wish to wear it when you’re so…. _Exposed,_ Your Excellency?”

Sansa laughs. “Honestly, Jeyne, they’re just shoulders.”

“They aren’t, though,” bushy-haired Lyra Mormont cuts in, looking amused by this conversation, “That bib was heavy. They’ll be seeing your collar bone and a bit of your teats, most like. I say you may as well, though. We’re in the South, after all, and it’s hot here. We’re among indecent people, no point in sweating under our own decency for them. Don’t be a ninny, Jeyne.”

“Excuse me if I don’t want a bunch of reptiles salivating all over _our_ Dauphin!” Jeyne snaps, “If that makes me a ninny, then I am a proud one!”

“Fine, but the weather here is as hot as the inside of a glass garden at high noon. I intend to hack away at some of my things as well.”

“You want these _lizards_ ogling you too? What if they try to take liberties?”

Lyra grins. “Oh, I hope they do. I’d love the chance to get my Lizardskin at last. I can put his cock and stones on a chain and send it to my mother to hang over the mantle in the Great Hall.”

Most of the room laughs. Even Jeyne gives a sheepish smile. But Margaery and her attendants gape.

Sansa decides not to tell Margaery of the legend. But she smiles at the thought of it.

Gytha the Gelder was a normal fishwife three centuries back, whose village, the Saltpans, was raided. As all the men had gone off to fight in the war, the town was supposedly left defenseless. The Targaryen brutes sought to burn the village and rape their women, but were surprised to apparently find the wenches of the village welcoming. The women, under the instruction of Gytha the Gelder, lured the whole troop into the hay, only to pull blades from their petticoats at the last minute and unman every single one. They killed all but a few soldiers, who were allowed to leave to tell the rest of the Targaryen army what had happened. Upon hearing this, an outraged commander, a Targaryen prince called Maekar, decided to storm the Saltpans for revenge. However, the ladies of the Saltpans greeted the Targaryen forces head on, wearing jewelry made from their victims’ manhoods. Gytha had cried out for the army to come and try to ‘reclaim their lizardskin’. Instead, Prince Maekar ordered a retreat.

Since then, it’s been a popular tradition among Winter Women to “get their lizardskin”--- gelding a Targaryen man and making an ornament of it. The ornaments often became well-preserved heirlooms, and the superstition was that having one protected your home from dragonfire. Even those who don’t believe that bit still considered the lizardskin a prize, though. A token of their family’s valor.

Sansa wonders if the legend is known at court. _It’s better if it isn’t._

“Now now,” Sansa says, leaning over to pat Margaery’s hand. “I’m sure the men of this court will know to keep their hands to themselves.” She looks to Margaery. “Right?”

The daughter of Highgarden looks determinedly at the floor. “I’m afraid only some are true gentlemen.”

“Ah.” Sansa purses her lips. “I see. Jeyne, would you fetch me a quill and parchment? I have a message for His Grace.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

_Your Grace,_

_Please be advised that if the gentlemen of your court fail to keep their hands to themselves, my ladies shall not be responsible for their actions._

_Best Wishes,_

_Princess Sansa Arryn Stark, Dauphin of Winter_

He crumbles the parchment in his fist. After the command about her title earlier, he doesn’t dare announce this as well. There are already too many whispers about him being utterly henpecked, as Daenerys was so kind to report to him earlier.

Not that he wants to warn his men, necessarily. He has little to no patience for unwanted hands, and it amuses him to think what actions the Winter ladies might not be responsible for in response.

Jon tosses the message aside and walks over to the full-length mirror to review his attire again. As per usual, he wore black, though his long doublet was velvet lined with scarlet satin and embroidered down the front lacings with the same. As a token of regard to his new bride, he wore one of the few heirlooms he had of Lyanna: a silver direwolf brooch that he pins to the center of his collar. The crown of the first Aegon --- Valyrian steel with square-cut rubies--- is nestled in his dark curls.

“Very handsome.”

Jon turns, a bit stunned, to see his older sister saunter into his chamber, a sad smile on her face.

“Rhaenys!” He cries, a little bashful. Even wearing the Conqueror’s crown, he feels like a child before his sister. In fact, the crown makes him feel even _more_ like a child, playing dress up.

She, however, looks every inch a queen in an amber silk sashed with scarlet, a tiara of diamonds and garnets atop her head. Not for the first time, Jon thinks of what an absolute _idiot_ Robb Arryn Stark is.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Little Brother,” she admonishes fondly, coming close and reaching up to adjust the crown herself. Jon lets her.

“I haven’t meant to,” Jon says hurriedly, knowing it to be half a lie. “It’s just… With the princess coming here I thought… I thought you could be spared some of the attention and fuss.”

Rhaenys laughs and rolls her eyes. “For pity’s sake, Jon, I never even _met_ Robb Arryn Stark!”

“But he still insulted you,” Jon says angrily, “Still shamed you in front of the entire world!”

Rhaenys sighs. “I still had it better than my mother.”

Jon winces at that, and looks away guiltily. “I figured that would only make it worse. I’m surprised you can even stand to look at me. I took your brother’s crown, I set you up to be shamed by another Arryn Stark before the world, then brought yet another down to be our High Queen. To many, I’ve shamed myself. Rhaenys… You’ll have to _curtsey_ to her!” In Daenerys’s case, this seemed a pathetic, stupid issue of ego. But for Rhaenys…

“So? It’s no less demeaning than curtseying to a boy that once pissed my bed.”

Jon cringes. Years ago, he and Aegon both ran from their beds on the night of a terrible storm. Aegon was taken into Elia’s bed, Jon into Rhaenys. Then a particularly loud bolt of thunder struck and he lost complete control of his bladder. He was four.

“Please don’t tell her about that,” Jon asks.

“I promised I’d tell no one, remember?” Rhaenys replies mischievously, “And I kept that promise. Not even Aegon ever knew. Why would I break that promise now?”

“Lots of other people would.”

“I’m not lots of other people. I’m me.” She chuckles. “Besides, I technically don’t have to curtsey to her until the wedding, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.” She steps back and looks away for a moment. “Mama won’t be attending. She’s not feeling well.”

Jon nods. He’s learned to anticipate this. Elia’s health has never been good, but it’s seen an even greater drop since Father died.

He notes how tightly Rhaenys clasps her hands, how she suddenly won’t meet his eyes. “What’s amiss, Sweet Sister?”

“I want to ask something of you, but I’m afraid you’ll refuse.”

“What is it?” He can’t think of much he’d deny his older sister. Not now.

Rhaenys bites her lower lip, then sighs. “It can wait until after the banquet.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “However, I have another request. One that can’t wait.”

“And that is?”

“Take me to meet your new bride before you lead her into the banquet hall and introduce us. I want to know if your betrothed is as duplicitous as mine was.”

Jon laughs and offers Rhaenys his arm. “Take your mother’s place tonight.”

“Are you sure? Cersei---”

“---Can go suck her brother’s cock.”

“Jon!” But she’s trying not to laugh.

It’s in the entry hall just outside the ballroom that they meet his betrothed and her attendants. Jon is rendered speechless at the sight of her --- firey hair, sapphires and rubies. Her gown is navy velvet with scarlet pleats and sleeves, trimmed with silver. To his delight, it is definitely more southern in style, shoulder-bearing and low cut so he could see the tops of her breasts. Sapphire chandelier earrings dangle about her long neck. Atop her head is a diadem of sapphires and rubies set in silver.

Jon’s fingers itch to touch just one of the waves of blood-colored hair that tumble about her alabaster shoulders. So much so that he has to yank his hand back.

Rhaenys clears her throat, summoning him back to reality and Jon does a double-take. “Princess Sansa, allow me to introduce my sister, Princess Rhaenys of the Iron Throne.”

To his surprise, his betrothed curtsies. To Rhaenys. Not to him.

“Dear Princess, I cannot tell you how honored I am to meet you,” Sansa says with an earnestness Jon has never seen, “Allow me to apologize on behalf of the Winter Kingdom for my brother’s indiscretion and tell you how disappointed I am that you did not become our queen.”

Rhaenys, surprised, returns Sansa’s curtsey. “Thank you, Your Excellency. It is kind of you. But, at the very least we still get to be sisters after all. A silver lining, wouldn’t you say?”

“I should hope so.” There’s some residual guilt in Sansa’s voice.

“Shall we?” Jon asks, turning towards the door. Rhaenys moves behind him and Sansa takes his arm. The doors open.

“Your sister is lovely,” Sansa whispers, briefly glimpsing over her shoulder at Rhaenys.

“Indeed she is. Clever and kind as well. She’d have made your brother a wonderful queen.” Jon tries not to let the bitterness bleed into his voice, and fails.

Sansa looks away for a moment. “I have not forgiven Robb his transgression, either.”

“Perhaps, but not on Rhaenys’s behalf.” He remarks.

“No,” Sansa whispers, “Not until now. She deserves better.”

There’s something about that last sentence: an undercurrent of quiet fury. Jon watches her carefully. She keeps her eyes fixed on the crowd and begins smiling and waving. Despite her grin, there is a distinct level of disdain and misery in her blue eyes. Jon’s stomach sinks.

He waits until they’ve seated and the first course is being distributed to speak to her again. “I meant to tell you,” he says, “You look very beautiful.”

“Not too beautiful, I hope.” She responds, eyes on her plate.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t want to be too alluring lest you lose control, Your Grace. I’d hate to make you lose your supper.”

Jon is about to respond that it’s not a supper, but a banquet, when she meets his eyes and her meaning becomes clear. Jon’s stomach sinks. _She’s not talking about tonight. She’s talking about tomorrow night. Our private meeting. She can’t really think…_ But Jon remembers. _I’m Rhaegar’s son. Her family charged him with rape. Of course that’s what she thinks._

“I think you’ll find me in full control, Princess.” He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. “I mean---”

“---Of course, it’s no matter!”

“It’s a matter indeed! I’m not ----”

“---Like your father?”

“---No! I mean, yes! I mean---” He loses his patience. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Madam. So I suggest you cease this prattle before further betraying your own ignorance.”

“My ignorance? Or yours?” She glares. Jon feels a cold sweat run down the back of his neck.

“Yours.” He says firmly. She gives a dainty little sniff and looks toward the stuffed mushroom caps being offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, guys, Elia IS coming. But you'll have to be patient.


	4. Lord Baratheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident arises at court. Jon makes a statement and one of the ladies is sent home.

Jon:

His betrothed is an intelligent woman, that is clear. As clever as Elia or Rhaenys. As clever as Cersei and Viserys believe themselves to be. He watches her during the banquet, and is stunned by how quickly she moves.

When the floor is opened and the music begins, Sansa glances at Jon. “Surely the king and his betrothed should lead the court in dancing.”

Jon, not a skilled or enthusiastic dancer, reluctantly rises. She is right: he has to lead. He spends the whole thing counting and trying not to stare at his feet, but Sansa turns out to be skilled at compensating and leading without appearing to, thus rescuing him from embarrassment. 

When the song is done, she pats him on the shoulder and asks, knowing the answer, if he wishes to go another round. He declines, and bids her to go on without him “if you so wish.”

Margaery, having taken her cousin Baelen Hightower as a partner, hurries over and introduces him. He invites Sansa for a dance.

The way she interacts with Margaery gave him pause. He’d sent Margaery to her to give his good-sister a chance to curry favor with  _ him,  _ not his new bride. Jon assumed that the two would dislike one another. After all, Sansa is a Winter Woman and no one is more southern than Margaery. And he figured Margaery would see the princess as a usurper of sorts. 

But the women speak fondly with one another, trading whispers and giggles as they pass one another on the dance floor. 

When the set is done, the Dowager Crown Princess brings Princess Sansa to the Reach table and eagerly introduces the princess to her relatives. Sansa takes dances with the middle Tyrell brother, Ser Garlan, and a couple of Margary’s Hightower and Redwyne cousins.

This isn’t ideal. Aenys’s mother is a Hightower and cousin to Margaery. And the rumor was that the Reach had two plans: either Aenys would take the Iron Throne and wed Margaery, or Aenys’s sister, Megga, would wed Margaery’s son, putting a Tyrell-Hightower on the Iron Throne. But what could the Reach want with Sansa? She is a foreigner, and the prospective royal consort and mother to the next king. The terms of her being here meant excluding a new Reach-born queen, basically crushing the ambitions of the Reach.

Others took notice as well. 

Joffrey, the tit, ends up cutting into one of Sansa’s dances with Ser Garlan, pulling rank to do so, though Jon almost wants to thank his half-brother for it. As the Lannister prince turns her about the hall, Jon notices Cersei watching them, whispering to a hovering Lord Tywin. Sansa practically flees from Joffrey once the dance is over, only to nearly run into Viserys, who claims the next. 

One thing Jon notices is that though Sansa practically bolts from Joffrey upon completing the dance, his half-brother still looks smug when it is over, clearly believing himself to have charmed the Princess of Winter. The two chatted during the song, and Sansa likewise seems to have much to discuss with Viserys, though she does distance herself from him once it is complete.

But Sansa doesn’t devote her whole evening to Highgarden, though. She uses Joffrey and Viserys’s interruptions to gravitate back to the High table, where she strikes up a conversation with Rhaenys.

“I’m sorry to hear that your mother couldn’t attend. Is she very ill?”

Rhaenys glances at Jon for a moment, but he nods. She turns to Sansa. “It’s migraines, she gets terrible ones these days. It should be gone by the morning, at least.”

“I get them as well. Is it sound or light that is the worst for her?”

“Both, I’m afraid.”

“What does she normally apply?.”

Rhaenys blinks, surprised. “Normally she ingests Butterbur and Feverfew herbs. Her mother, the late Princess Meriah, always had them brought in from the Dornish Marshes.”

“I’ve found some relief in rubbing peppermint and lavender oil into my temples, has she tried that?”

“I don’t believe so, peppermint and lavender are less popular in Dorne. But I’ll suggest it to her. Thank you.”

Sansa surprises them both by calling one of her Northern ladies, to the table. “Jeyne, Darling, would you run an errand for me? Go into my oils and get the peppermint and lavender and have the vials sent with instructions to Dowager High Queen Elia. Then make sure someone goes and buys me a new supply in the morning.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Rhaenys, genuinely moved, thanks Sansa. “It really is much too kind of you.”

“Nonsense.” 

Jon observes this with no small amount of interest. Is it purely compassion, or is she working an angle? Either way, it’s thoughtful. And a good way to work her way into the Martells’ good graces.  _ Is she merely trying to remedy some of the hurt and insult her brother did Rhaenys, or is it more?  _ Dorne is still technically independent, and it always had more in common with the Winter Kingdom than it had with the Iron Throne.

Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, soon bounds over. “Your Grace, may I have a dance with your lovely bride-to-be?”

Jon glances at his princess bride.  _ Let’s see how she deals with a fat lout like Lord Robert.  _ He nods, and before Sansa can say a word, the drunken lord is laughing and yelling ‘Excellent!’

Robert Baratheon had once been as handsome as his brother Renly, well-muscled, and an utter beast in the field. He is one of the most decorated warriors in the kingdom. But in later years, his lusts caught up with him, leaving him fat, drunken, and red-faced. These days, he is known more for putting his hands on his wife’s maids than military valor. Still, he somehow possesses a sort of raucous charm that makes him popular with his subjects.

The man rounds the high table to pull Sansa’s chair out for her and practically sweeps her off her feet and onto the dance floor. 

This proves the event of the night, for two minutes into the dance, there’s a cry from Lord Baratheon of “Seven Hells!”

The music stops and the dancers all fall back, giving Jon a decent view of his betrothed and her partner. The beet-faced Lord Baratheon clutches his cheek and Princess Sansa glares at him, hand raised. Jon gets to his feet, stunned and ready to vault over the table if the man tries to retaliate.

This, he hadn’t expected. Robert Baratheon was a lout, sure, but Jon thought even he knew better than to take liberties with a king’s bride. Jon thought that at worst, the man might make a bawdy joke. Surely, the slap can’t be over that, though...

“I gave you two warnings, my lord.” Princess Sansa announces firmly. “You did not heed them, so you pay the price.”

Jon swallows. “What is---”

A cry erupts from a corner. “Take his lizard skin!”

Jon looks in the direction of the voice to see an unfamiliar young woman of great height, stepping towards the dance floor and reaching for the belt of her gown. Fastened to it was a dirk.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Sansa says, lowering her hand, “Will it, Lord Baratheon?”

“You---” But the man has the sense to glance up at the High Table and see his king. “---You are right, My Lady---”

“--Your Excellency!---”

“---You---!”

Jon does actually vault over the table now, making dishes fall to the floor, and races toward the dance floor when he sees Lord Baratheon go puce and start to step toward Sansa. 

The Lord of Storm’s End towers over him. Despite being out of shape and drunk, the man still has years of experience, four inches, and at least three stone over Jon. Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard start moving in, but Robert stops when he sees his king.

The young king glares daggers at the man. Lord Baratheon has always been difficult. Years and years ago, he’d been present at the famous Harrenhal Tournament where Jon’s parents met. Lord Robert had always famously passed the jousting over for the melee instead. However, that tournament, he entered the lists for the first time. According to rumor, he did so after catching sight of Jon’s mother, Princess Lyanna, and sought to win the tournament and crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty. Rhaegar ended up winning, of course, but there were rumors of the young lord seeking a possible betrothal with Lyanna before she ran away with Jon’s father.

It was partly why, when war over Lyanna broke out, the Stormlands threatened to defect and fight with the enemy. This was only prevented by Aerys taking Renly hostage and Rhaegar giving the two eldest Baratheon brothers Florent brides with immense dowries. Even so, there’s always been tension. The Baratheons are Targaryen cousins through their great-grandmother, and the two eldest, Robert and Stannis, are great warriors. 

There have even been rumors for years of the still-bitter Lord Robert entertaining a secret betrothal between Viserys and his daughter, Lady Argella. 

Still, this… This is unbelievable. Jon can barely control his rage at the man now. 

It frightens him a bit, too. Perhaps the court’s opinion of him was even lower than he thought, for Lord Robert to believe he could place his hands on Jon’s bride. 

Jon tries to keep calm and think, however. If that’s the case, it’s time to send a clear message. Jon’s hands fly to Blackfyre’s hilt. “Shall I have to draw steel under my own roof, My Lord?” He spits. With Blackfyre and starting in this stance, he has a better chance of defeating Robert, who hasn’t brought his trademark warhammer to the banquet. The man is extremely drunk. “You have threatened my betrothed within my hall. Another step, and you’ll have completely relinquished your guest right.”

Lord Baratheon stands still, clearly considering this. Or trying to, at the very least, when his brother hurries over and plants a hand on Robert’s shoulder.

“Are you mad?! She is no kitchen wench, she’s to be our High Queen! That is your king! You’re an inch from the Black Cells, you idiot!” Ser Stannis snaps, yanking at Robert. The Lord of the Stormlands looks down and steps back uneasily, reluctantly conceding defeat as his younger brother moves forward impatiently.

“Your Grace,” Stannis says, grinding his teeth, “My brother is well within his cups and without his sense. Allow me to retire him for the evening and please accept our most sincere apologies.”

Stannis Baratheon is a proud man, and he’s used to his brother embarrassing them all, though not on this scale. For years now, the second Baratheon brother has been something of his brother’s controller, keeping the man’s worst impulses in check. Still, it takes a lot for him to ask for forgiveness… if that is indeed what he is asking.

Jon looks into the knight’s eyes. Despite his issues with Robert and Renly, he’s always harbored some sympathy for certain members of the family. Stannis is one of those he pities. Jon doesn’t exactly like a man ---- Stannis Baratheon isn’t the sort of man one really  _ likes  _ \---- but he does respect him to a degree. 

“I’ll let you take him back to his quarters, but you are to keep him there,” Jon says, letting go of his hilt. “Tomorrow morning, when he’s sober, both of you shall come to the throne room to discuss the proper consequences for this insult _.  _ And I want a straight apology from  _ him _ , too, when he isn’t slurring his words. Ser Jaime!”

Ser Jaime Lannister the Golden Lion, twin to Cersei and knight of the Kingsguard, reluctantly comes forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Go with Lord Baratheon and his brother. You’re to help Ser Stannis make sure he doesn’t drink another drop tonight and ensure that he appears at court tomorrow.”

Jon always takes the opportunity to separate Ser Jaime from Queen Cersei. The relationship between the Lannister twins is disturbing, and everyone knows Jaime to be his sister’s creature.

He’s even allegedly the true father of Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella, and Jon believes the talk may have merit. None of them have the slightest trace of Targaryen features in them, all three golden-haired, green-eyed lions. Granted, that isn’t certain. Jon is certainly Rhaegar’s son, but he has his mother’s coloring, after all. That was partly why Jon never pursued the gossip: not only might it provoke House Lannister into an uprising, the grounds for suspicion could easily be applied to Jon, with his dark brown hair and grey eyes, as well. Someday, Jon might address it, but he can’t now.

But even if it isn’t true, Jaime operates to serve Cersei’s whims. The less time they spend together, the better.

As is typical, Jaime glances at Cersei, who glares, but reluctantly bows his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ser Stannis says sourly, “Once again, I apologize to you for this.”

The three men file out, and once the door closes, the stunned, silent hall descends into murmurs and whispers.

With them gone, Jon feels some relief, and even excitement. Despite his anger over the violation, this will be a chance to gain leverage over the Baratheons. He’s been handed a prime opportunity to set an example of what will happen if he’s crossed. On top of that, he may have earned himself some credit with his new bride now that he’s defended her honor.

Jon turns to the Princess of Winter, expecting thanks. Instead, she appears indignant. 

He can’t imagine why. “Are you alright, Your Excellency?”

She glares at him. “I’m fine, Your Grace. Thank you  _ so much  _ for asking  _ me. _ ”

Mystified by her attitude, Jon steps forward and tries to calm her, taking her hand. “I promise you, he will never lay a hand on you again.”

“ _ He  _ won’t. Of course.”

“Please don’t think this is common practice among my lords, Princess. Lord Baratheon is simply a brute, and he shall not have a chance to come near you again. Tomorrow, I will have him begging before the Iron Throne and banish him from court as punishment.”

“So you’d let him go free to molest the ladies of his castle instead. How gallant.”

_ What does she expect, an execution?  _ He thinks of what that woman of hers shouted out about lizard skin and the message she sent this afternoon. “You and your ladies are to take no further action against Lord Baratheon or his household. He is my subject, this is my court, and I shall handle it as I see fit. Do you understand me?”

“Oh, I certainly do.”

He doesn’t like her tone, but he’s sick of the unpleasantness. “Good. I promise you, you’ll never have to lay eyes on that man again.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“What?”

“You’re bringing him before the court tomorrow. Won’t I see him then?”

Jon blinks.  _ What kind of mad place has she come from, where ladies are forced to face their assailants? _ Robert Baratheon might even to try make some excuses, perhaps even try to blame her for his actions. The princess doesn’t need to hear such dreck. “It is not necessary for the queen-to-be to attend such things,” he says gently, “Your presence shall not be required.”

This just seems to anger her further, but she seems to swallow her thoughts and steps back. “If you would permit me, Your Grace, I’d like to retire.”

Jon’s eyes widen.  _ Perhaps she’s just in shock.  _ “Of course.”

Sansa beckons her ladies, who quickly close ranks around her, shooting everyone, including Jon, dirty looks as they all depart the banquet. 

~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa:

They encounter Jeyne in the halls, returning from her errand. “Your Excellency,” her confused lady-in-waiting says, “Why are you---?”

“We’ll explain back in our apartments,” a furious Lyra tells her. Jeyne turns around and follows them.

“The disgrace of it!” Wylla Manderly cries once the doors are shut behind them and the Targaryen servants are dismissed, “How dare they! The disrespect! The posturing! The way they disregarded you!”

She paces in circles in front of the fire as Sansa drops onto the sofa with Beth and Lyra. 

“I guess that’s what we should have expected from the Targaryen court,” Lyra seethes. “The ‘civilized’ court, indeed. Where did he touch you, Your Excellency?”

“He didn’t damage your gown, did he?” Beth fretted.

“Who?!” Jeyne, still in the dark and standing over them, asks. “Did the king--?”

“Not the king,” Myranda Royce takes a seat in a chair by the sofa and scoffs. “Not the king, but, if you can believe it, some old, fat, drunken lord put his hands on Sansa while dancing with her.”

“Why were you dancing with a fat drunk?” Jeyne asks. 

“Lord Baratheon,” Sansa spits, knowing the answer to be unsatisfactory, “Bounded up to the High Table and asked my betrothed if he could dance with me. The King said he could, and before I could make my feelings known, the man was dragging me to the floor.” She takes a deep breath, unable to believe it herself. “My first words to the man were ‘raise your hand, if your please, My Lord’ when it drifted south of my waist. The second thing I said when he did it again was ‘You will keep your hands where they belong, Lord Baratheon, or there shall be consequences.’ He laughed, moved his hand, and apologized. A minute later, during a turn, he used a turn as an opportunity to pull me to him close enough to feel his arousal and pinch my right breast. So I slapped him.”

Lyra sighs and starts unpinning Mother’s diadem from Sansa’s hair. “This is why I keep telling you to carry a blade. Especially in this place.”

Beth narrates the aftermath to Jeyne, who reaches over the back of the sofa to embrace her Dauphin. 

“You got no apology?”

Sansa fumes. “No, the king got two, though. And he’s to get another tomorrow at a court session I’m not invited to. This is his matter, you see. We’re to do nothing.”

“Such is the oh-so-civilized court of the Iron Throne,” Lyra sneers. “When a lady, even a princess is molested, it’s her betrothed who is wronged, not her.”

“And her betrothed who dictates whether or not she dances with someone,” Sansa adds grimly. “He didn’t even look at me before saying yes to Lord Robert’s request. He just said ‘of course.’ Not, ‘if it pleases the lady’, just ‘of course’! The man was obviously in his cups!”

She shakes with anger. Back home, it isn’t unheard of for a gentleman to sometimes ask a lady’s kinsman/woman, guardian or husband if he might request a dance with her, but it is always followed by the lady being asked her feelings on the matter herself. And even when a man is asked, it was usually only if the lady is especially young, or if her guardian is known to be particularly protective, or if she was married. Otherwise, the only request is to the lady in question. No man would lay a hand on a lady until she agreed. But apparently, here the will of a man is all that mattered. The king hadn’t even  _ glanced  _ at her before handing her off to that drunk.

She swallows and looks over at Randa. “You don’t think… You don’t think he did it on purpose, did he?”

Randa bites her lip and looks at the ground. Clearly, the thought had occurred to her too.

“What do you mean?” Beth asks. “Do what on purpose?”

“Hand Sansa off to a powerful lord who would grope her.”

“Why would he do such a thing? What kind of man would want some brute laying his hands on his lady?”

Sansa sighs. Beth Cassel, at thirteen, is the youngest and sweetest of her ladies. Sansa planned on leaving her back in Winterfell, actually, but Beth begged and begged. “A man seeking leverage over a powerful lord. Robert Baratheon gropes me, committing a crime against the king, giving him the chance to milk House Baratheon in exchange for a pardon.”

“That’s vile!”

“The man is Good King Ned’s killer and was conceived of Princess Lyanna’s rape,” Wylla reminds Beth impatiently, “He’s grandson to the Mad King. Mad King  _ Aerys.” _

“And this court…” Lyra shakes her head. “During the banquet I drew the attention of this posturing knight. He thought I was a southerner and asked what I thought of you. I wanted to hear an average courtier unfiltered, so I didn’t correct him and told him you were a fine woman. He snorted and said that he heard you were no maiden, but ‘a whore’.---”

“---Lady Lyra!” Jeyne exclaims, “Our princess---”

“---Go on, Lyra,” Sansa says, unperturbed. She’s been expecting something like that, and one of the reasons she values Lyra is her bluntness.

Lyra finishes unpinning the circlet and places it on the side table. “Well, he barely apologized when I told him who I was. Then he asked what my father was lord of, I told him that my father was a bear, lord of nothing, but that my mother was Lady of Bear Island. He snorted and acted all shocked, called our kingdom primitive, and went,  _ ‘How does my wild Winter Lady like being in a civilized court with real men, then?’  _ I nearly gelded him right there, but that was when you slapped the drunk. The people here are foul. I suspect their king is no different.”

Sansa leans back and looks at the ceiling. “I wonder what the rate for groping a whore like me shall be,” she muses dryly, “For a couple pats on the rear and squeeze to the teat, what will His Grace demand? Gold? A castle? Secrets? Which of my wares do you suspect my new royal pimp shall want to sample tomorrow night when we have our ‘private supper’?”

Poor Beth begins to weep, and Sansa, guilty, puts her arms around her lady. “Hush now, Sweetling. It’s no use crying.”

“Why not?” Her youngest lady sobs. “You’re Dauphin of Winter and you’ve been sent here to be grabbed and sold and raped by lunatics! If you can be used so, what hope is there for anyone?”

Sansa’s heart seizes up. She strokes the girl’s brown curls. “It won’t happen to you, Darling, I promise it. First thing in the morning, I’m hiring a ship to take you back home to your family. No one will do anything to you there.” She looks around the room, at Jeyne, Randa, Wylla, and Lyra, “The rest of you are free to return with her. I cannot ask you to face this danger.”

“What?!” Lyra demands, somewhat offended, “And miss a chance to take my lizard skin? It will snow in Dorne first!”

Wylla bristles. “ A thousand years before these lizards came to our shores , a promise was made, and oaths were sworn in the Wolf’s Den before the old gods and the new. When the Manderlys were sore beset and friendless, hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies. I will not abandon a daughter of Winterfell.”

“I’d much rather fend off these freaks with you than go back home and marry that withered old bag of leather Father wants for me,” Randa insists.

“I-I’m not leaving either,” Jeyne says nervously, “I… I am no warrior, I can’t fight a king or take a lizard skin. But it is an honor to serve my Dauphin however I can. And you are my best friend.”

Now Sansa is fighting back tears. “I don’t deserve any of you.”

“That is for us to decide,” Randa insists. “If that pathetic brother of yours deserves to have our men fight and die for him, then you certainly deserve a few ladies to be here for you.”

“I’m not leaving either,” Little Beth sits up and stares forward, determined and brave. “I’m staying.”

“You are not,” Sansa insists firmly.

“I am! I’m not craven, I’m not!” She sobs.

“Of course you’re not,” Sansa says gently, cupping Beth’s cheeks so the girl faces her. “Look at me. I know you’re not craven. But your place isn’t here, Beth. It’s with Ser Rodrick and my sister.”

“Princess Arya?” Beth asks, blinking. “What does Princess Arya need of me?”

“Your sweetness and support,” Sansa explains, “She might be queen someday, and if that happens, she’ll need someone kind and good and brave.”

“Arya thinks I’m a ninny.”

Sansa sighs.  _ Give her something so you don’t have to put her on the ship in shackles.  _ “What if I asked you to bring her some messages for me? My brother might want to read anything I write to Arya, but he’ll never think to spy on letters written to you. If there’s some secret I need to send to Arya, I can mark it in a letter to you and you can tell her without anyone knowing.”

“Like a spy?” Beth says, now a little excited. She was, at heart, an adventurous sort, despite her aversion to violence.

“Exactly. I can even give you a little code so you know which bits are for my sister. And you can send me messages from her, too. Or better, write them in letters to Randa.”

Beth’s eyes grow huge. “Alright! I won’t let you down, Princess, I promise!”

“Good. Now,” Sansa strokes Beth’s cheek, “Why don’t you go to bed now. I’ll write out some instructions for the code and give them to you in the morning, alright?”

Her little friend smiles. “Yes, Your Excellency!”

She rises and hurries off to the bedchamber, pausing briefly to curtsy and bid them goodnight.

Sansa sighs and sits back again.

“Your Excellency, don’t you think it’s a bit---” Lyra begins.

Sansa silences her with a look. “I would never, ever purposely endanger that girl. I only brought her here in the first place because I was afraid she’d sneak aboard the ship if I didn’t. Now that she’s seen what this place is and believes she’s not abandoning me, I can send her back to her father, safe and sound.”

“But the letters…”

“Will contain nothing compromising.”

Randa rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Mormont!”

Sansa cups her temple. 

“You don’t really think he’ll rape you, do you, Princess?” Jeyne asks nervously.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “He killed my father. He’s a Targaryen. He’s Rhaegar’s son. And after just a day here I can tell this place is venomous. One doesn’t stay king in a court like this and keep a clean soul. And he intends to keep his crown. For all I know, he wouldn’t even consider it rape since we’re to be wed. He doesn’t see what his father did to Lyanna as rape, I know that. And these Targaryens are all mad. He’s already started treating me like property.”

The only thing that gives her pause is seeing him with his sister, Rhaenys. He was gentle and kind with her. He respected her. That appeared to be mutual, and Princess Rhaenys did not seem dim or malicious. Margaery Tyrell also seemed to think the king would keep his word to forswear other wives and concubines. Sansa can tell the woman is not naive, and would likely love to rub it in a potential rival’s face if she thought otherwise. 

“...But?” Lyra asks.

“But… I can’t be sure yet. There are other things, things which make me wonder about his nature. I made a remark to him earlier implying that he’d force himself on me and while his words weren’t great, he seemed genuinely horrified at the notion. Flustered. I don’t know. Maybe it was an act. I barely know him.”

“Let me wait outside the door,” Lyra begs her, “When you attend your ‘supper’.”

Sansa smiles. “He’ll have guards. You realize that, right?”

“What are a couple of guards to a bear? I once fended off a half-dozen Ironborn raiders on Bear Island. I can take a couple of fancy knights. Trust me.”

“Very well then.” Sansa hugs her friend.

“I want to come too,” Randa says, “I’ll seduce them away from the door.” She pushes her breasts together and grins. “These southern gowns will make it easy.”

They all laugh at this. Sansa shakes her head.

“If you promise to run if things get ugly, I suppose so.”

“And Wylla and I…” Jeyne falters for a second, then thinks of something. “We’ll get you some Moon Tea if…” She shudders. “...If the worst happens, you won’t have to carry any lizard spawn, at least.”

That is a comfort, oddly enough. Sansa sits back. “I think I will attend court, too. It will give me some insight, so I’m better prepared for the man I’ll be dining with.”

“But I thought the king said---”

“---He said my presence wasn’t required, not that it was forbidden. I honestly think he doesn’t expect me to come,” Sansa remarks, thinking on their brief conversation. “He seemed genuinely surprised at the idea.”

“What if he has banned you, though?”

“Then that will also give me insight into what sort of man he is,” says the Dauphin grimly, “But I won’t know unless I try to attend.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon: 

Robert Baratheon comes before the throne, head bowed, more likely due to a hangover than any genuine contrition. Ser Stannis stands behind him, practically prodding him forward.

Jon keeps his back straight. The Iron Throne is no easy seat, it is jagged and uneven and sharp. Father always said it was better that way.  _ “Such a seat of power should never leave a man comfortable, never let him be anything but careful and alert.” _

“Lord Robert Baratheon. Yesterday evening, I allowed you the great honor of dancing with my betrothed. You abused that privilege by touching my princess in a lecherous manner, then, when she slapped you away, you nearly attacked her. Twice. You abused a woman of the crown, my intended, under my own roof, at my own banquet. This was a violation and insult to me as a man and as your king.”

Lord Baratheon reluctantly lifts his head and glowers. “Your Grace, my actions were deplorable. It was the drink guiding me, for I was well into my cups. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Jon glances down the royal dais to see Daenerys, near the bottom steps beside Cersei, smirking. She’d come to him the night before, seeing the opportunity presented, and urged him to ‘Take the Stags for all they’re worth. Show everyone you’re not to be trifled with.’

They exchange glances for half a second before Jon turns his attention back to his vassal. “I might be willing to forgive this grievous slight… If you proved yourself truly contrite.”

Lord Robert bristles and gives his brother a brief, angry look. Stannis grinds his teeth and nods.

“How may I prove myself, Your Grace?”

“Well, since you can’t be trusted while drunk, I want you gone from court, for one thing. Gone until I see fit to let you return. But I still want a Baratheon presence here. The Stormlands should be represented.”

Stannis Baratheon steps forward. “I am perfectly willing to fill that role, Your Grace.”

Jon smiles. “I am happy to accept, Ser Stannis. But… I can’t help but think on how to prevent something like this from happening again. Your brother set a poor precedent for how the lords of Storm’s End can be expected to behave themselves at court. And frankly, I would be more assured that House Baratheon is reliable if, perhaps, I knew that its  _ future  _ had a better understanding of how to serve its king.”

“...Sire?”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Lord Robert, your heir, Edric, how old is he now?”

Lord Baratheon’s hands ball into fists. “He’s sixteen.”

“Old enough to be a knight and serve. Has he taken his vows yet?”

Robert seems to have no answer. He looks, baffled, at Stannis, who sighs and steps forward.

“My nephew is still a squire, Your Grace. For Lord Swann.”

“Seems to me that he’d have more opportunities to earn his knighthood here than Stonehelm. And I think it best that he learns of proper courtly behavior before he inherits Storm’s End. That way, I can be sure that the next Lord Baratheon won’t prove so… disappointing. Send for him.”

“You slimy b--” Robert stops himself before he utters the full insult, but he doesn’t stop talking. “I’ll not have my son and heir made a hostage in this nest of vipers!”

“Hostage?” Jon says with false innocence. “Not at all! I intend to take young Edric as a squire. It is a great honor, to squire for the king. And, if his service is good enough to make up for your conduct, I will happily knight him myself. I’ll even find him a bride, a very fine one if he proves himself more trustworthy with ladies than his father. That’s not incarceration, that’s opportunity. But, if you prefer, I could incarcerate you instead. Honestly, I’m taking your barbarism and lechery and offering you an out---”

“---Please, lechery! Like I forced myself on some innocent maid! We all know the truth about your  _ princess _ !”

“Robert!”

But he ignores his brother. Jon glances at Ser Barristan and nods as Lord Baratheon continues his rant.“She’s no maiden, nor did she behave like one last night! If you saw the way she was looking at me---”

He shuts his mouth when he feels the blade against his throat.

Jon rises, furious. “SHE SLAPPED YOU, YOU FOOL!” He pauses to regain his composure. “You must have been very drunk indeed, Lord Robert, if you thought you saw anything in the ‘looks’ my betrothed was giving you were ones of interest.” 

He feel every inch a dragon, glaring down at Robert Baratheon. wants to completely destroy this man. 

_ Once you drew the interests of highborn ladies. You have far more exploits under your belt than my betrothed could ever hope to have, and we all know it. Everyone knows how valiant and powerful Lord Robert the Hammer of Storm’s End was. But that was years ago, when my grandfather ruled. And now look at you. You’re not seducing young, highborn maidens, or anyone anymore. You’re a fat, gluttonous, foolish, foul old drunk. The only women who touch you are either whores or frightened serving girls who wish to keep their posts. The only thing you have left that might possibly interest a woman who isn’t paid would be your title, and since you’re married, it’s a moot point anyways. _

_ What would my betrothed want from you? Your impressive physique? Your multiple chins? Your way with slurred words? What are the Stormlands to the future High Queen of the Iron Throne? Even if you were anything like your former self, I highly doubt she’d try to entrance you right in front of me. If I didn’t already think you the biggest idiot in Westeros, the fact that you would even try such a ridiculous lie would convince me _

But he doesn’t say that. “You have no business slandering my bride for lack of propriety with a reputation like yours, my lord. You can lie to yourself about a young, beautiful princess bride desiring you, but lying to anyone else only breeds laughter, scorn, and my distaste. The Stormlands deserve a better lord than you, so I intend to turn your son and heir into a better man. You have two choices. You can apologize now for your words and behavior, confess to your slander, and leave here with your title and position. Or you can continue this way and leave for The Wall with no cock. Which do you prefer? If it’s the former, get on your knees.”

Robert glares. “You don’t have the stones to---”

“--We’ll see who lacks stones. Ser Arys, Ser Arthur, hold him down and---”

“---ALRIGHT!” Robert drops to his knees. “Please, Your Grace, forgive me! I placed my hands on your good lady, my future high queen, within your own home! She only danced at your bidding. And I drunkenly put my hands on her out of lust and envy. It was only her beauty which entranced me, her behavior was righteous, direct, and she rejected me. She was repulsed and warned me from it, I ignored it. Out of pride and cowardice, I slandered her good name. She is blameless in my crimes. I shamed myself, my House, and my realm! I beg your forgiveness, your mercy! Take my son from my foul influence and make him a better man! Please!”

_ The great Hammer of Storm’s End, weeping and begging at my feet like a spineless, wimpering peasant. That should make a few people rethink my strength. _ Pleased, Jon looks around at all his assembled lords and ladies. Many were looking at Robert in shock, others looked at him, clearly reevaluating their “weak” king. Every face delights him. 

Up until he spots her, observing from the balcony. In truth, he spots that green-haired attendant first, then sees her. Princess Sansa stands against the rail, watching intently. 

_ What is she doing here?  _ He’d warned her, hadn’t he? Why was she so determined to witness some drunken pig slander her before an audience? 

Robert may be groveling now, but his words still held weight, regardless. Anyone who hadn’t heard whispers about Sansa’s lack of virtue will know now. Jon knew the gossip was rampant, and, from what he’s gleaned, undeserved. It’s true the woman is no maiden, but every reliable report says the same: it was one man. The one she tried to run away with. 

But to hear the court say it, she may as well have been a one-woman brothel. It was partly why he emptied the Queensvault so fast. Jon had hoped to keep those foul whispers from her ears long enough for him to combat them. But now she’s seen a Lord Paramount announce her lack of maidenhead before everyone. She knows now, and she knows they’re all saying it.

_ Why didn’t she come? I told her I’d handle it!  _ He should have forbidden her outright. His stomach sinks.  _ What must she think? _

Faces soon turn in the same direction as his own, and before long nearly the whole court is looking at Sansa. She notices.

Jon expects her to shrink away in humiliation. Instead she clears her throat.

“And what of my forgiveness?” She demands from her elevated position. “I am the one molested and slandered. Lord Baratheon, even if I was the greatest slattern on the continent, I’d sooner drink wildfire than give you ‘looks’. The very sight of you makes bile rise in my throat. I gave you two warnings. Then I slapped you. You deserve far worse. Your king is merciful. Where I come from, those ill-mannered hands of yours would be removed along with your manhood. But I didn’t even get to decide whether or not I’d dance with you, so I doubt it matters.”

Jon tries not to flinch. He feels guilty. He’s made an error.

Jon clears his throat, commanding attention again. “This is  _ not  _ the Winter Kingdom, so I will not cut off your hands and manhood. You have asked for mercy, and I am willing to grant it. But first, you will ask the princess for her forgiveness as well.”

The humiliated Robert turns on his knees. “Please, my lady---”

“--- _ Your Excellency!” _

Robert hesitates, then swallows, clearly seething at this. “ _ \--- Your Excellency,  _ I humbly apologize for putting my unworthy hands upon you and besmirching your good name. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Good,” Jon says, satisfied. “Now get to your feet. I want you gone by sundown, and young Lord Edric here in a fortnight. Ser Stannis, you will see to the arrangements.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Court is dismissed.”

He comes away from this pleased with himself. Even Daenerys looks proud. Rhaenys outright beams. Best of all, Viserys, Joffrey, and Cersei look downright ill.

His good mood lasts all of two hours. Then Ser Tristofer Waters, his Master of Whispers, comes to his chambers.

“Your Grace, I have received troubling news from the docks at Blackwater.”

“Oh?"

“It’s about Princess Sansa, Sire. One of her ladies-in-waiting, the one known as Lady Lyra Mormont, I believe, was spotted there, trying to book passage on the next ship bound for White Harbour. My spies say she mentioned that she wouldn’t be the passenger, and was insistent that the ship provide the passenger every comfort and protection and leave as soon as possible.”


	5. Awkward Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of Sansa in King's Landing: Jon talks to his step-mother, Sansa visits the dragons, and a party for Beth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELIA'S DEBUT! DANY VS SANSA VS RHAENYS! ANGST! NAKED JOKES!
> 
> Also, my beta-reader went AWOL all of a sudden. Any volunteers?

Jon:

After he calms down, he paces in his chambers, trying to get his head straight. Surely it can’t be what it looks like, can it? Too obvious, surely. _And she’s intelligent. And bold, yes, but not like this. She’s not reckless. Unless that’s exactly the thinking she’s counting on. She knows it would be too obvious, perhaps? She managed to escape her home before._

Jon paces some more, re-reads the report some more. _What if she’s gotten to me? What if she’s bewitched me already?_ His bride is so very, very pretty, after all. And from what he observed from her mingling the night before, she knows how to work her charms.

He’d been so outraged at Robert Baratheon. In a way that went beyond even the personal insult of it. He was so furious, and not simply because the man had done him wrong, but because he did Sansa wrong. Worse, Jon found that he was angry at _himself._ As angry as he was at Lord Baratheon, once he slept on it. He’s just met the woman.

Robb Arryn Stark was good at misdirection. It’s partly what made him so effective. One of his specialties was doing things which seemed too brazen to be real, lacing his “foolhardiness” with a thousand tricks. He did things no other commander would try. And almost got his forces to the gates of King’s Landing.

Perhaps his sister is the same way in her subterfuge?

Still, something seems off.

After about an hour of mulling this over, Jon surrenders and summons two of the wisest people he knows to his chambers.

He actually called for Rhaenys initially, not wanting to trouble Elia after her migraine, but his sister sent a message that her mother had quite recovered and ‘would likely offer better counsel than I.’

There isn’t a day that goes by that Jon does not wish Elia Nymeros Martell was his mother. Of course, whenever the thought enters his head, he is overcome by guilt on his true mother’s behalf. But he cannot help it. Sweetness, elegance, firmness when necessary, and an astounding degree of “cheek” as Father put it.

As for Uncle Aemon, the world would be a better place if the man had been his grandfather. While Elia was like a bouyant, neverending spring amidst a desert, Aemon is the old tree that never dies, offering shade to passers by.

Jon is almost ashamed to enlist their help. The two already have done so much for the kingdom. Jon literally has usurped Elia’s son. And every day, he feels more a failure. But to trouble them with his own weaknesses, like a whining child with a skinned knee…

Jon feels even more a fool, watching them enter. Aegon’s birth did irreparable damage to Elia’s hips and she walks almost as delicately as the man forty-eight years her senior. Jon pulls out his most comfortable chairs for them. “Are you both well?”

“Quite well, I assure you, Your Grace,” Aemon says in his frail voice.

“I am quite recovered,” Elia assures him, stretching out in her seat, owning her place at the table as she always has. “I hear you had quite a morning, though. Robert Baratheon. Applause, Jonny. Not even your father ever managed to expell that sack of toxic gas from this place.”

He blushes. Praise from Elia always made him feel a warmth within him. “Too bad the triumph was ruined. By this.”

Jon pushes the written report in front of his step-mother. She scans it quickly, then sits back and narrates the contents of it in an oddly dispassionate way. “One of the new bride’s ladies was out today hiring a ship to take one high-ranking passenger and a few guards back north.”

The king feels a bit stupid when she puts it that way. “It’s obvious who that passenger must be, correct?”

“It’s obvious what the knee-jerk assumption would be, yes.” Aemon says in a disconcertingly pleasant tone.

“Jonny, if your bride was trying to escape, she wouldn’t send one of her own ladies out in the open to hire the ship, only for herself and none of her ladies. She wouldn’t be going with no more than a few guards, leaving her ladies behind. She would not do it so soon after her arrival, and leave her ladies behind. She wouldn’t hire a recognizable and well-known passenger vessel and leave her ladies behind. She also would not leave her ladies behind.”

“You mentioned that bit, yes,” Jon scowls. “She tried to escape before, you know. Without her ladies.”

“She tried to escape her _own home_ without her ladies. Not a foreign land ruled by a semi-hostile power. And from what I heard, did she not make it hundreds of miles before her brother caught up to her?”

“So?”

“So, she’s careful. Much too careful for this,” Aemon explains, patting the tabletop like it’s the back of Jon’s hand. “Her ladies would not have been hostages in Winterfell. They would be here. She managed to move out from under her brother’s nose.”

“Jon, do you think I would try to escape this way?” Elia asks.

“Of course not.” He says automatically. There’s no room for doubt in his mind about this.

“Your betrothed is much as I was. A foreign princess sent off to wed the scion of our historic enemy to broker for peace. Viewing this court as backward and treacherous, unused to the concept of a harem, poised to be the next High Queen and not knowing entirely what that means. Joining a whole new culture I was raised to fear. Raised for a different life. Feeling a bit betrayed, in fact, by my own family for arranging such a match. Your father was a stranger and there was wide talk of your grandfather’s madness. Even then, I tended towards illness and no sickness was so great as my yearning for home. My strength was my brother, Oberyn, my sisters-in-spirit, Ashara Dayne, Larra Blackmont, Tyria Allyrion, and Ellaria Sand. I felt like the commander of the last remaining dregs of an army surrounded by an enemy. There were times I thought of escaping but I would never think to leave my ladies behind.”

“Of course,” he says, “But you’re not Sansa.”

“No. But I am the daughter of a nation that views this country and family’s attitude towards women as barbaric.”

His eyes widen. He’s never heard her speak so bluntly. Jon bows his head in shame. Elia’s reprimands count as much as her praise.

“I don’t want anymore harems,” he insists. “I plan to change things.”

“So did Rhaegar,” Elia reminds him, “Until it became clear that the best I would ever give him is one son. But that’s not the point. I would not leave my ladies behind.”

“You didn’t see her last night, flitting around the Reach courtiers.”

“No, I was in bed with a splitting migraine when a sweet Winter lass arrived with vials of oil, curtseying every other word as she directed my niece to soothe my head with the princess’s personal remedy, on the direction of her charge. A charge who volunteered this after offering her concern to my daughter.”

“True,” Jon admits, “But I can’t tell with her what is kindness and what is a ploy. You’re sweet, kind, gentle… Sansa is all sharp edges, anger, careful charm and harsh elegance. She wears a mask, and all that I know for sure is that she’d do anything but be here. Not like you, you-”

He’s cut off by Aemon laughing so hard he ends up in a hacking cough. Jon hurries to rub his elder’s back and offers a handkerchief.

“Good lad,” Aemon says, wiping his mouth and still chuckling. “Jon, you weren’t around to know your step-mother when she came to court. I _was._ Granted, Elia would never slap Robert Baratheon herself. But she would coldly call for Oberyn to throw him across the room. Her Grace eventually found her place here, in a fashion. She was softened by your father’s charm and motherhood eventually, as all women-”

“-some women!-” Elia insists sharply.

“-Enough women are,” Aemon concedes, “But before that? She was a burning Dornish spear, albeit one that had to spend more time in bed than most. But the things she would say and do in that bed? The Red Viper of Dorne was dangerous indeed, but never so dangerous as the one who held his leash. That was, and still is, Elia, and she was far less discreet about it then.”

“In one of the first private conversations I had with your father, I told him that if his lips didn’t precede his cock, he’d lose both.”

Jon’s jaw drops. He’s never heard anything like this before. “You said that?”

“My ladies and I prepared a whole host of threats and insults for your father and his whole family before we even touched ground. Then there were the battle plans, the logistics, the codes. Things I could have used later, had I not let my guard down too much. But having to send Ashara home had much to do with that. The point is, fight or flight are responses to fear. I was terrified, and I assume your bride is. But if half the rumors I’ve heard about Winter Dauphins are true, she would not be stupid with either response. And she would not employ either without her ladies.”

Jon feels some relief, but that makes him anxious. Is it that he merely wants to believe? The king gestures to the report. “Then why this? Why the ship?”

Aemon sighs. “You’re a smart lad. Think of other possibilities.”

He does. And it becomes rather easy once he bothers. “I suppose a member of her household could be leaving. Someone high-ranking and close to her.” He swallows. “After last night, I suppose it would make sense to want one less vulnerable young woman at court, especially if she thinks us barbarians. Or it could be a pet. A prized falcon or some such that does not fare well in this climate.”

“Is she an avid falconer?” Elia asks.

“I have no idea. She never wrote to me. And we’ve barely exchanged thirty words to one another since she arrived.” Jon’s fists tighten. “And that’s the problem! She refuses to engage! She’s even been skittish about having dinner with me tonight.”

“...Alone?”

“Of course, alone! How else are we to truly have an intimate conversation in this nest of vipers? Even if I, say, took her on a walk in the gardens and kept others at a distance, onlookers would probably report back to Viserys and Cersei that I’m being ensnared or taken over by her. I just want to speak to her away from prying eyes.”

“Did you explain that to her?”

“No, because I can’t wholly trust her, either. If she knew the extent to which I have to maneuver around my own relatives, she could send secret messages to her brother about how weak I am, bidding him to invade. She’s as much my historic foe as I am hers, you know.”

“Oh, Jonny, if you just phrase it correctly-”

“-I don’t know how!” Jon insists, frustrated. “It was Aegon who had that talent, not me. I’m the shadow, remember? Not the golden prince.”

Gods, how he wishes Aegon were here.

“Oh, would you cease with the self-pity?!” Aemon snaps. “You’re king, for pity’s sake!”

“Enough, Aemon,” Elia intercedes sharply, “Even Rhaegar had his moments. Kings need them as much as any of us. More so, in fact. He’s doing it with the right people, at least.” She looks at the old maester. “That being said… would you let me have a moment alone with his grace?”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Jon rises to walk Aemon out and returns to his seat. He and Elia exchange looks. She reaches across the table, taking his hand in hers. “I can help you, you know. And I won’t even make a big deal about it.”

Jon smiles at his step-mother. “Thank you, Your Grace. A bit of feminine guidance is perhaps what I need.”

“Not just any feminine guidance, I hope,” Elia says sharply, “Women are not a hive mind. There are two types of ambitious, powerful women in this world. There are the ones who employ and seek power as women, for women. Then there are those who employ and seek power as the _only_ woman. You want the former, not the latter.”

“Noted.”

His stepmother sighs and withdraws her hands. “I wish you had not avoided me so much, Jonny. I’ve missed you. There’s no shame in seeking my guidance, you know. Your Father often sought my advice openly.”

“That’s not it. Not entirely, anyways. I just feel ashamed in another way,” he admits, “Like I’ve stolen something from you. It should be your son on the throne. Not the son of your husband’s infidelity.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel like that.” She leans back and crosses her arms about her chest, eyes narrowed at her lap. “You brought him so much joy, you know.”

All of a sudden, Jon is blinking back tears. He shakes. “I should have been there…”

“You didn’t have a choice. He made it for you. And I will never blame you for that. Aegon was who he was. And one of the things we loved him for so much was his downfall, really. He would get so caught up in right and wrong, what’s right and wrong for who and how. Which would have been ideal if he could simply think for himself. But he craved being told things. He lapped up the Seven Pointed Star like a cat with cream. And he was certain that if he let you go up against your uncle, that you’d not be able to join him beyond this life. And he always wanted you there. To him, his life for your soul was a bargain.”

“And I pissed all over that!” Jon says, no longer holding back his tears. “I killed my uncle anyway! The very thing Aegon sacrificed himself to spare me!”

“Jonny…”

He’s so caught up in sobbing into his elbows that he doesn’t hear her rise, shakily, and walk, stiltedly, to him. He feels her hand on his shoulder. “Jonny… Jonny, listen…”

He wants so badly for her to curse him, rail at him, for being here when Aegon isn’t, for ruining the very reason that happened. But she doesn’t.

“Aegon was _wrong_ , Jon. He lived in a mindset of certain salvation and damnation. He did what he did because he was _certain_ that if he didn’t, you wouldn’t make it to Heaven. But you still can, Jonny. You made a grave error, yes. You sinned. But the only way to truly betray my son’s sacrifice is by not striving to do better. To despair. He had a short life, yes. But the reason he was willing to sacrifice for you was because you were one of the things that made that life so worth living. No one was a greater friend to him, not even me. And I love you for that.”

Jon looks up at her, amazed. She cups his cheek. “Truly?”

She purses her lips. “I knew, you know.”

His heart races. Surely she can’t mean what he thinks. No, Aegon never told his mother. Jon would know. “You knew…?”

“The reason Margaery Tyrell is still a virgin. Why Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon left court. I knew before even he did, actually.”

She gives a sardonic laugh and takes the chair beside him. “How could I not? What you and Aegon were to each other, my brother Oberyn and I are. I watched Oberyn grow up. People joke about lusty Dornish, but his preferences really aren’t as commonplace there as you Iron Throners assume. Not that there is as much of a _stigma_ , shall we say. But it was something that was meant to be kept behind a curtain, so to speak, especially for a noble boy, and especially especially beyond a certain age. Most boys of our rank are supposed to move beyond their squire play at a certain point. But it wasn’t play for him. And sure, it wasn’t entirely the same. Oberyn loves women and men the same. But still… I watched my brother grow up.

“And I watched Aegon grow up. I kept waiting for him to tell me, wondering when he would. But I sometimes fear I put him on a pedestal like everyone else, and he was too afraid of disappointing me to speak. But at least he had you. You rescued him from his broken heart. Some boys, upon learning their closest friend had such predilections, might pull away in fear. Especially in this country, so many strange notions are pinned to anything that differs. Even a brother, then, might have recoiled. Feared overtures. But you didn’t. You just loved him as you always did. For what he is. Not who he or anyone else wanted him to be. Just him, even if you thought that was worthy of idolizing, it was still him, and it was enough. So I know, Jon. I _know. I know who you are._ I know that you have it in you to charge into heaven to be embraced by my son, who will be… just so proud of you. I want that to happen. Let me help you do that while I still can.”

That last sentence gives him pause. _No. No. Please, not you. Not now._ He tries to swallow his panic and merely look at her with concern. “Elia,” he says, searching her up and down, “You’re not…?” He lets the question hang.

“I don’t feel any closer to death than usual,” she replies, “Just being careful. Keeping the possibilities in mind.”

Jon breathes a sigh of relief. Elia would say if something is wrong. She’s always been good about that.

He trusts her.

“So then,” he says, wiping his tears, “What do I do here, with my bride? Surely I shouldn’t ignore this.”

“No, of course not. But you want to just… reframe everything. Tell me how you invited her to supper, first of all. And then we can go from there…”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Sansa:

She gazes down at the nest of gathered silk, straw, and even golden floss, situated in a former garden fountain, the sort children once waded in. This had been once one of the family gardens, but was made over to house Daenerys and her dragons so that she could keep her “children” close.

So it’s true. Here they are. They crawl awkwardly on back legs and the odd wing-joints/claws. They take to the air in brief spurts of flight, never higher than a few yards, never longer than a few minutes. They sqawk and burp up jets of red, gold, and emerald flame.

The largest is black, and Sansa cannot help but think of how the largest of the Monster’s Dragons was Balerion the Black Dread. She’s visited Harrenhal many a time. You can feel the centuries-old death, centuries-old screams still in the air.

Sansa sees some echoes of it in their current surroundings. This was once the center of a hedge maze, but there is sparse shrubbery and mostly burnt remains now. On the marble and alabaster surfaces are dark imprints from where sculpture had been removed.

She can understand her brother’s horror. And yet…

Sansa cannot help but be reminded of featherless baby birds that have just discovered that they have wings. When the green one manages to kick itself in its own head, she cannot stifle a snort.

Even more amusing are the unison “oohs” and “ahhs” from the crowds whenever there is so much a flutter of wings.

Princess Rhaenys stands beside her. “I once had a tomcat called Balerion the Black Dread, you know,” she whispers, “He was more deserving of the name as a kitten than this whole lot.”

Sansa tries not to giggle.

Beth wanted to see them at least once before she left, so Rhaenys and Margaery agreed to show them. Sansa’s youngest maid-in-waiting leans over the ledge of the basin in fascination as Margaery gaily tosses bits of meat to the creatures.. Jeyne and Lyra stand back, noses wrinkled in disgust, Lyra’s hand on her hilt. Myranda and Wylla gaze in cautious interest.

They’re far from the only onlookers. There are septas, septons, and their novices gathered in prayer. A few of the more daring courtiers, like Margaery, toss so many scraps into the pen that Sansa can’t help but think that the dragons will be too fat to fly before long. Or just grow too fast in general, which makes her stomach turn. The leather collars and yard-long leashes they all sport seem like a poor jest. Yet more keep at a distance. There is a collection of maesters studying them. A couple artists capturing them on canvas. The stray troubadour sits off to the side, lute or harp in their laps, strumming and scribbling lines on paper. Guards, leathered from head to toe, likely melting in the heat, all around.

Viserys Targaryen, Aenys, and Joffrey Targaryen gaze at them from separate corners lustfully.

It’s always like this, apparently.

“But the main attraction,” Margaery informed her as they strolled to the Dragonpark, “Is always when their mother emerges for an appearance. The last century or so is littered with Targaryens trying to get dragon eggs to hatch and only succeeding in killing themselves, their servants, entire castles, or all at once, in the process. People still aren’t sure how Daenerys did it. Even mystics from Qarth and Yi-Ti have come to see them.”

“If I were Daenerys,” Sansa said, “I’d spend as much time as I can with them. To protect them from thieves.”

“Oh, she’s so often entertaining these days,” Rhaenys replied, “And she’s very selective about who sees her dragons. Usually she demands an audience, first. People must pay tribute. She even tried to demand it of Mama and I! Jon put his foot down then, of course. But Margaery had to surrender her favorite hair brooch. No one dares take them, though. Viserys tried to wander off with Viserion once and nearly lost his fingers to his dear namesake… and the guards. Daenerys purchased Unsullied from Slaver’s Bay to guard them.”

“Actual Unsullied?” Lyra had sqawked. “As in, the legendary, hyper-elite eunuch _slave soldiers?!”_

“Well, technically they’re indentured now, but yes.” Margaery explained. She sighs. “Daenerys has a little court of her own, now. Though sometimes it feels more like a sept.”

“You seem to take issue with that,” Myranda, sharp as ever, remarked.

“I just think the religious and secular should be clearly separated. And that clergy should stay focused on the truly divine. As fantastic as these creatures are, they aren’t the first bursts of magic these lands have seen. My Hightower cousins spent years with the Faith Militant banging on their doors and extorting them over magic they used to protect Oldtown. But the dragons get praised. My moth--” At that, Margaery shut her mouth.

“Come now, Princess,” Wylla teased, “You can tell us!”

“Perhaps, but I prefer not to!” And with that, Margaery grabbed little Beth’s arm. “Come along, Love, let’s fetch some treats for them, shall we?”

That had been the end of that.

Sansa is distinctly aware that the dragons do not capture all the attention in the clearing. Curious eyes wander to her. And she catches her name in the stray whisper here and there. Perhaps they wonder what the Princess of Winter must think, to see the Targaryen power rise again. She wonders if they have similar queries about Dorne.

She is approached a few times by this or that odd courtier. Lady Swann and her daughter, Carellen, a bonny creatures with big blue eyes and golden curls. Lady Tanda Stokeworth, and her daughters Falyse and the unfortunate Lollys. Lord Rosby and Lord Swyft. They speak of future dining engagements, of well-wishes for her nuptials and the fruits thereof. Her impressions from last night are furthered. _Perhaps there is some power to be gained as the brood mare. Or is this just initial curiosity? Maybe I’m not different from Daenerys’s dragons to them._

A handsome young singer in lavender silk skips over to her and doffs his feathered cap as he bows. “My sweet Dauphin, you have answered my prayers!”

“Whose prayers might those be?” Sansa inquires, conscious of how Rhaenys’s grip tightens on her arm. She’s also conscious of how he addresses her. The Iron Throne courtiers who address her up front as Dauphin are few. And she almost detects a hint of Riverland drawl creeping into his affected King’s Landing accent.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency!” He bows again. “I am Marillion of the Crossroads! One of your own good subjects, in fact. A songcrafter by trade who once enjoyed the fervent patronage of your own uncle, Ser Edmure, heir to Riverrun!”

Sansa laughs at this. “That explains how you ended up here, I suppose!”

He looks taken aback. “...Your Excellency?”

“Knowing my Uncle and how he is about singers, I suppose he is the one who ran you out of the country.” The legend was, on his fifteenth Name Day, her good Uncle was taken to a tavern for his first night of drinking and whoring. He certainly drank; too much, in fact, to perform with the girl his friends had selected for him. A local singer learned of this and soon the Riverlands echoed with a tune called ‘The Flopping Fish.’ Since then, her uncle banned singers from his court. “There are plenty out there who cannot carry a tune, but my uncle is of the select few who cannot even tolerate them. But I hope he wasn’t too unkind.”

“Er, of course not.” Marillion clears his throat. “Well, anyways, you’ve answered my prayers, my dear Dauphin. I’ve been longing for an ounce of inspiration. I even imagined that perhaps a reminder of home might help. And in you stride, the Mother of our country herself, beauty incarnate, with hair that burns even brighter than dragon flame. And my mind is awash in ideas!”

“I’m glad I could be of help.”

Rhaenys tugs at her arm and they exchange glances. The princess’s brown eyes are full of warning.

“I’m sure you have many tunes to craft, then, with so many new ideas.” Sansa adds.

“And I’d very much like your exquisite ears to be the first to hear them. Perhaps I might entertain you and your ladies with a performance soon. I’m sure you’re as eager to hear sounds of home as myself.”

“Perhaps. I’m afraid our schedule is quite packed. But when I get a chance, I’ll be sure to seek you out. Marillion of the Crossroads, was it?” It was so much easier to dismiss people when you remembered their names.

“Indeed, Your Excellency!” He bows again, practically touching his brow to his knee, and prances off. Rhaenys pulls Sansa closer to the pen and leans in.

“Stay away from that one, he does not give your nation a good name.”

Sansa tenses. “Gambling, theft, or lechery?”

“He can’t keep his hands to himself in any pursuit. He was first a favorite of Queen Flora until Queen Cersei stole him away. Now she’s expelling maids and ladies left and right for ‘telling lies’ about him.”

 _If I were home, I could have him heading for the Wall by sundown,_ Sansa fumes. _And he’s one of ours!_ It just disgusts her more. _Is this the representation we have? Robb jilting their princess and a lecherous thief of a singer?_

“I’m so sorry. Hasn’t anything been done?”

“Mother complained, of course, but Cersei raised a stink among the ministers and he’s gotten no more than ‘warnings.’ But if I had to guess, it was more likely a swollen belly than your uncle that drove Marillion from the Trident.”

Before she can say anymore, the entire energy of the garden changes. People turn.

“Among you all is Her Grace Dowager Queen Daenerys, Pureborn Princess of the Iron Throne and Mother of Dragons!” A young herald calls out.

The Dragon Queen enters the pavillion from the left entrance, flanked by handmaidens and dressed in a sleeveless ivory gown, her silver hair adorned with a white gold and amethyst circlet. The Dragons begin sqawking louder, jumping into the air and flapping their wings at their mother’s presence.

She smiles benignly at a few attendants who bow and curtsey, then pauses when her violet eyes catch Viserys’s. For a moment, this effervescent creature looks human. She tears her eyes from her brother and spots Margaery and Beth. Beth dips into a curtsy, and Daenerys remains there, looking expectant.

Begrudgingly, Margaery dips into a curtsey.

“And who is this pretty little one?” Daenerys, the exact same height as the girl, says, “Another little Reach Rosebud? A bit buried in fabric, isn’t she?”

“If it please you, Your Grace, I am Lady Beth Cassel of Winterfell, attendant to Her Excellency Princess Sansa Arryn Stark, Dauphin of the Winter Kingdom.”

Daenerys looks up at once, around, and spots Sansa. “I see.”

She marches past Margaery and Beth, past three other courtiers and two Faith novices, right up to Sansa and Rhaenys.

Sansa smiles benignly and nods her head. “Your Grace, at last we get to make a proper introduction.”

“Funny, I could have sworn last night that we met.”

Barely. Daenerys had more or less dismissed her. Even within the ballroom, the woman seemed to be holding a court of her own, surrounded by servants and admirers. If anything, Daenerys made a greater show of not greeting her than paying her notice, as if she and the whole affair was beneath her notice.

“Pardon me,” Sansa says, “It was a rather eventful evening and I did encounter so many. Not to mention the… incident.”

“Yes, I must congratulate you on that.” The congratulations are begrudging, as Daenerys clearly picked up on the slight. “I am surprised to see you here, though. I’d think a Princess of Winter would want to stay as far from Dragons as possible.”

“Well, desires aside, we’re prepared to face them when confronted. Even such… singular ones as yours.”

“I wasn’t aware you were coming, to be honest. Usually courtiers have an audience with me beforehand. I’m protective of my children, as I’m sure you understand.”

“I can see why you’d be nervous at the presence of Princess of Winter,” Rhaenys interjects snidely. “As bad as an Uller, even. She’s my guest, though. I felt it necessary to show our future _High Queen_ all the parts of her _future court.”_

“Hopefully amidst all the touring you might find the time to coach her in protocol as well.”

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Sansa says, “But I reviewed all written court protocol for ladies of the Red Keep. A required audience with you before venturing into a harem garden was not listed or even referenced. In fact, according to my sources, as intended High Queen, all areas of the Harem are open to me until the wedding, save for the incumbents’ chambers, as established by the revised royal harem doctrine of High Queen Elia of 290 AL. In fact, I am certain High Queen Elia emphasized how imperative it is for the new High Queen to inspect and tour the Harem before officially taking office so as to best establish her reign within it. I believe that was the last official update of the established protocol of the Red Keep Harem, or am I mistaken?”

“You’re not, Your Excellency,” Rhaenys says, grinning. “Very thorough. Your scholarship speaks well of you.”

Daenerys’s face is stony, eyes wide. Through clenched teeth, “Well, thank you for that little lesson, Princess Sansa. You make a perfect schoolmistress. So, in the interests of examination and inspection, what do you think of my children? Glorious, are they not?”

Sansa looks at the three creatures again. The White and the Green wrestle over a silver spoon and in the conflict somersault into a ledge. This woman irritates her. “I suppose I’m showing my background, Your Grace. My favored glories lay in a bountiful harvests and newly finished roads. Dull stuff in comparison, surely. But the existence of your children is truly remarkable.”

“Indeed. They are a miracle.”

“So are bountiful harvests.” Rhaenys counters.

“Those come every year. These are the first dragons in over a century!” Daenerys sputters.

“Not every year, Your Grace, take it from a Winterwoman, though they are, admittedly, a bit more consistent than dragons. They _are_ what allow us to make it through those centuries to see such wonders. Without them, no one would see or know your children. And while we’ve still managed to set our hearths and beacons alight during their absence, without a harvest, we would not be able to eat.”

For a moment, she thinks Daenerys is about to breathe fire. Sansa stands still and continues to smile, however.

“Well,” the Dowager Queen manages, “I do hope you enjoy the bounty of our king’s harvests. My dragons and I have lent him a great deal of support in overseeing your favored ‘miracles.’”

“I wasn’t aware dragons could plant trees. Wondrous creatures indeed.”

Rhaenys and Margaery stifle their laughter. Wylla and Randa don’t bother. There’s a man’s laughter in the background as well.

Daenerys’s violet eyes narrow. “You’d be amazed at the things they can do, I’m sure. The things they _shall_ do.”

“There will likely be many who take a great interest in such a promise, Queen Daenerys. How considerate of you to announce it so clearly before this crowd of fine ladies and gentlemen.”

“Oh, I assure you, they are happy to hang on my every word.”

“Is that so? Well, they’re certainly listening intently now.”

“Careful, My Lady.”

Rhaenys jumps in. “It’s ‘Your Excellency’, actually. Surely you saw the missive?”

“I saw it. Didn’t bother reading it.”

“Perhaps your… friends… have something similar to say about you,” Rhaenys sneers.

All at once, Sansa feels like she’s accidentally swam out into a foreign ocean, caught between two competing rip tides.

“My title is ‘Your Excellency’, Your Grace.” Sansa says simply. She glances between the two. Their eyes are locked on one another, an invisible flame there. She backs away, feeling singed enough.

Not even noticing, the two continue to trade barbs. Sansa goes to gather Beth and the others. As she gestures to Myranda and Wylla, someone comes up behind her.

“Excellency indeed, Princess.”

Sansa turns to meet the lavender gaze of Viserys Targaryen. His eyes remind her of Roose Bolton’s: almost sickly pale, cruel, and unfeeling.

“Allow me to offer my congratulations on putting my slut sister in her place.”

Sansa does not feel congratulated. She feels ill. Viserys smirks.

“I hear you wish to go home. I could be an ally to you.”

“I desire no alliance with a man who would call his sister a slut.”

He snorts. “Come now, I hear that it’s a compliment north of the border.”

“You should lend your ears to better people then. Good day, Prince Viserys.”

She turns and hurries away, having had enough dragonfire for the day.

In the sunlight, she catches sight of the embroidery on her cuff. _Fuck Robb, the Slaver King._

She returns with her ladies to find a letter bound with a red satin ribbon and a dragon seal waiting on her desk. From the king.

The supper. A chill runs down her spine. She swallows.

“You should at least read it,” Jeyne urges her. “It’s no small letter.”

“Let me have some wine first. I have a feeling I will need it.”

After downing some Dornish Red, Sansa takes a seat and breaks it open.

 

_Your Excellency,_

_Forgive the poor phrasing of my initial invitation to share my evening meal with you in my chambers from yesterday. I am not skilled with words. When encountering such a lovely young woman, I fear I become flustered and if anything, even worse. Thus, I wish to clarify that tonight’s meal is not a command, but a request. If you would please allow me the honor and pleasure of your company this evening, I’d find myself extremely grateful. However, I realize you may still be adjusting and recovering from you journey. If you require a quiet evening with your ladies, I fully understand. I merely wish to find a convenient time and setting to get to know you better._

_It has also come to my attention that an honored member of your household is set to depart for White Harbour tomorrow. I would like to offer a royal guard to see your friend onto his or her ship safely from Blackwater Harbour. In the future, please note that the palace staff is at your service in arranging transport for your staff if necessary. Your Ladies-in-Waiting need not trouble themselves._

_This is to be your court, and your people soon. It is my great desire that you find a home and happiness here. Your happiness is mine._

_Sincerely,_

_Jon of House Targaryen, King of the Iron Throne_

 

Sansa reads it twice, then shows it to Jeyne, then Randa, then Wylla. “There’s no way he wrote this.”

“There’s no way he wrote it alone,” Wylla replies with a shrug. “But a man willing to accept help is a better one than one who isn’t. It’s an especially good quality in a king, I imagine.”

“I don’t think he’s going to rape you!” Jeyne says with a disturbingly cheerful tone. It’s the hint of relief that makes it especially tragic.

“Not before the wedding, anyways,” Lyra remarks sourly. She takes the letter from Wylla, scans it, and scowls. “Why shouldn’t I book ships for you? Nonsense.” She looks over at Beth, who is laying out a selection of gowns atop Sansa’s bed. “Hey, guess what, Love? You’re getting a royal escort to the dock.”

“Oh! Do you think I could ride in a litter? I’ve always wanted to!”

Sansa nods. “I’ll check with the king. But as we all intend to see you off, I imagine that can be easily arranged.”

Beth grins. “Are you going tonight or not? I’ve chosen three that are very lovely.”

“I’m not sure if ‘lovely’ is what I want to convey, if I am going. I’d rather spend my final night of your service with all of you. We could have a little party.”

“Really?”

“His Grace made it clear I had a choice. I shall make it. But I will write him a kind refusal and offer the next evening.”

 

_Your Grace,_

_Thank you for your message and compliments. I’m afraid I must ask that we postpone our supper. It is the last night Lady Beth shall be with us, and I would prefer to spend that time with my young friend. We intend to have a small celebration for her to see her off, since it is the last we will see of her for quite a long time. However, I’d be willing to dine with you tomorrow evening, if you are not otherwise occupied._

_Sincerely,_

_Princess Sansa Arryn Stark, Dauphin of Winter_

 

His response couldn’t have stunned her more.

 

_Your Excellency,_

_Might I attend your gathering?_

_Sincerely,_

_Jon Targaryen, King of the Iron Throne._

 

What surprises her even more is her answer: _You may._

 

~_~_~_~_~_

 

Jon:

He’s not entirely sure why he makes this request. He has thousands of more important things to do. But then, perhaps that’s exactly why. He needs his head to stop hurting.

Or perhaps it’s because cozy little get-togethers within the harem were a staple of his childhood. A reminder of better days, when the most he had to worry about is cheering Dany up when Viserys would hack some of her hair off or screamed at her for killing Grandmother Rhaella. Back when Daenerys was just Dany. When he, Aegon, Rhaenys, Dany and even, at the time, Aenys, would chase fireflies in the gardens while their mothers and aunts told their secret stories and jokes. Back then, even Cersei Lannister could smile every so often.

Maybe he’s curious about how the Winterfolk celebrate. He’s half Winterman himself, after all.

Maybe it’s relief at the casual way Sansa responded when he brought up the ship, essentially confirming the best option: she was sending someone home. And indeed, he had some of his spies check the Winter luggage: all were unpacked, save for the youngest of Sansa’s ladies. A girl of thirteen. And it makes sense. After what occurred with Robert Baratheon, of course she’d want to send such a young soul away.

When he steps into the hall just outside his betrothed’s chambers, he does hesitate slightly. The guaranteed barrage of feminine indulgence he was more than prepared for. Growing up in a harem made such things easy. Giggles, squeals, dancing, ribbons, sweetments, impressions, play-acting… He could even braid hair.

But he knows he’s still an enemy to these girls. That’s what bothers him. Knocking on this door makes him feel like an invader in his own home.

The green-haired woman opens the door and immediately, everyone but Sansa curtseys. It reminds him of just how long it’s been since he’s attended such an occasion. It was back when he was the second prince. Nobody curtseyed then.

Many of them jump up from the floor as well, making it doubly embarrassing. And for very slight curtseys, not that he minds that part. It just seems a lot of trouble for very little.

And of course, everyone is awkward. A few of the girls, especially the one with the large blade strapped to her belt, eye him suspiciously. The others seem merely nervous, save for the green-haired one, Lady Wylla, and the curvy brunette, who goes by Randa. They offer him cider, lemon cakes, and the giant emerald velvet cushion next to Sansa’s that Lady Wylla had occupied up until that point.

The youngest of them, who Jon assumes to be Beth, stays near the pretty brown-haired herald, Jeyne, and steals glances at him. All of them give him odd, uncomfortable looks at certain points.

“Perhaps I should leave,” he murmurs to his betrothed, pretty and casual with loose hair and a periwinkle silk robe.

“You must have expected some awkwardness, surely. Would it make you feel better if I invited Rhaenys and Margaery? We’ve grown friendly with them.”

“Rhaenys, maybe. To be honest, I’ve never been particularly close with Margaery.”

“She was wed to your brother for a whole year.”

“Yes, but that… It’s complicated.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “Very well. Of course, I must ask Beth first. Beth, Love?”

Beth sits in front of Jeyne as the herald braids her hair. She was giggling, but stops when she’s called on. “Yes, Your Excellency?”

“Would you mind if we invited Princess Rhaenys?”

“No, as long as we don’t— well, anyways, sure, Rhaenys can come. I’d like to play with her hair. It’s so dark and thick!”

Sansa has a page sent out, and Jon’s sister arrives before long, surprised to see him present. A devilish smirk comes to her lips, though. One Jon recognizes from the various pranks of their youth. He gives her a look of warning, which she ignores to sit on his other side.

“It’s been a while since you visited the Maidenvault, Jonny,” she remarks in that tone that is so innocent it practically screams deviousness. “You must have found something quite intriguing to draw you away from your kingly affairs.”

“Our new arrival is a kingly affair, as you well know, Rhaenys.” He keeps his tone neutral, refusing to rise to her bait.

His sister rolls her eyes. “Yes, but I suspect that this particular kingly affair is more… engaging than the others.”

 _Oh._ He feels like such a fool. He glances at Sansa, who gazes at the surface of her cider. “Well, yes, obviously. Of course. Instead of fat, ruddy faced louts trying to battle with their nonexistent wits, I get to spend my time with a beautiful woman who actually has some. If I had it my way, I’d try to run the whole kingdom through her.”

For whatever reason, Sansa responds to this by completely emptying her cup of cider and pouring a new one to the brim. She glances at Jon. “Are you not king?”

“Well, yes. Of course. But obviously I can’t overturn centuries of tradition—- or, rather, anymore centuries-old traditions to run the country through you. Even if that wasn’t a factor, how would that even work?” He laughs. “Though you could certainly run circles around at least half my ministers.”

Sansa frowns and empties her cup again, then sighs. “Beth, which of my gowns would you most like to take with you?”

The youngest lady shrieks. “ _REALLY?!”_

Sansa nods. “You can get whichever you wish re-tailored in White Harbour. In fact, why don’t you go pick out the ones you like most and model them for us? We’ll help you decide.”

Beth shrieks again and jolts toward the dressing room, Jeyne following behind.

“Just don’t pick the wedding gown!” Jon calls after her jokingly. “We need that one!”

“Wedding gown?” Lady Wylla asks.

The room falls silent. Jon looks at his betrothed in horror. Her face is incrutable. _Oh gods, were we supposed to provide it?!_ “Um, yes, the gown for the wedding.” He feels like such a fool.

“By that I assume you mean the Maiden’s Cloak,”  Wylla says.

Randa, the apple-cheeked brunette, saunters over and laughs. “Whoever heard of a wedding gown?! How are you supposed to consummate through a gown?”

Jon and Rhaenys exchange looks.

“...Consummate?” Rhaenys asks nervously.

“Well, obviously! To seal the marriage before the gods!”

“Before the gods?!” Jon is starting to feel a bit relieved that Robb Arryn Stark jilted his sister. He does not like where this is going.

“Yes, at the Heart Tree.” Randa rolls her eyes, as if it is obvious. “The couple go before the gods cloaked, say their vows, remove their cloaks to be naked and become one flesh before the gods. A wedding.”

Jon and Rhaenys gape at each other in horror. _Seven Hells, what kind of barbaric lunacy is this?_

Rhaenys gives him a look that silently says, _You nearly married me off to these people, you idiot?_

“Not… not in front of everyone, surely!” Rhaenys squeaks.

“Well of course!” Lady Wylla insists. “You need earthly witnesses as well, and who wouldn’t want to share their first love with those closest to them?!”

Jon shakes. _Surely she doesn’t expect us to-_

Then he catches sight of how all their mouths are twitching.

And remembers that they follow The Seven in many parts of the Winter Kingdom, especially the Vale, where Lady Randa hails from.

“You-!”

Every Winterwoman then bursts into hysterics. Randa falls to her knees before her lady, who embraces her.

“I was… I was just… going to pretend that they had to make me one! But you… as usual… you just transcended me!” Wylla begins to clap.

Rhaenys joins in on the laughter, and before long, Jon cannot help but smile himself. It feels wonderful to laugh. Feeling a bit more comfortable, he reaches for his bride’s hand.

She immediately pulls away and jumps to her feet, face as red as her hair. “I… I am going to help Beth pick out her dress.”

Sansa hurries away. Her ladies look after her, clearly concerned.

“Brother, I think I’m ready to retire. And you? I’m sure you have some important state papers to get to.”

Baffled by what just occurred but getting the hint, Jon rises. “Um, yes. Many… laws… to sign.” _We were dancing last night though…_ “Goodnight, my ladies. Thank you for that wonderful joke.”


	6. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A private supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Israfel for his beta-work!
> 
> Sorry for the wait, guys, but I've moved recently and had some health stuff. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa:

Their farewells to Beth are tearful, and after watching her ship pass over the horizon line, they return to their chambers and take a day of rest until evening comes and they begin preparing for supper.

Jeyne now laces Sansa’s corset, stealing worried glances. She shared the Dauphin’s bed last night, she knows how she slept. Sansa told Jeyne multiple times that it was for missing Beth before she left, but Jeyne saw through that. “You’re not afraid to put her on that boat, you didn’t want her here in the first place. Something scares you, Your Excellency.” 

Her secretary also observed her charge’s increasing nerves as the day went on.

“He seemed rather gentle last night,” Jeyne declares in a soothing tone.

But Sansa believes she may be right. “Perhaps, but gentle does not always mean safe.”

That’s the issue.

Jon has improved in her eyes slightly after yesterday. Starting with court.

True, he still seems to see her as property, but his defense of his property impressed her. Him pointing out Robert Baratheon’s hypocrisy in decrying her virtue was certainly not something she expected. And once she mentioned it, he did make Lord Baratheon ask her forgiveness. 

She left court expecting some sort of reprimand from the king for attending court against his wishes and speaking up, but none came. 

Sansa has heard little of him during the days. And according to everyone she’s spoken with, it’s not because he’s out hunting, drinking, or wenching. 

The man works hard for his kingdom, she can’t help but respect that.

Despite some red flags in how he conducted himself -‘ _ I  _ allowed you the great honor of dancing with  _ my _ betrothed.’ ‘ _ My _ princess’, ‘a woman of the crown, _ my _ intended, under  _ my _ own roof, at  _ my _ own banquet’, ‘violation and insult to  _ me’-  _ She honestly wonders if that’s genuine on his part, or him simply playing to his court. He took an interest in her last night, a genuine one. 

Beth got to ride in a litter today. They were all escorted in three silk-strewn litters, escorted by guards in gleaming armor. 

Then there is how he treats his sister.

Their days are mostly separate, so Sansa does not see many of his daily interactions. But thus far, he’s been warmest with Rhaenys. Not even in a condescending way, either. He never treated her like a child. There is mutual respect there. Indeed, Sansa could not help but feel uncomfortable reminders of her and Robb when she observed them. Not even because the two relationships are similar, but because of how dissimilar they seem. And, to her shock, her interactions with Robb come off as lesser in comparison. 

Her brother never would have jumped at the chance to invite her to a get-together with friends, let alone a woman he fancied. And he often treated her as an annoyance and a know-it-all. 

And Jon actually seemed to enjoy being around women in a context beyond courtship. He was engaged and courteous with her ladies. He did not act hostile when she challenged him. Robb… Well, the only woman he seemed to really extend much time and interest in outside of manners of the heart was their mother. Indeed, it was after Mother died that Robb truly seemed to change. His behavior towards Sansa certainly deteriorated, and she suspected (and still suspects, in fact) that it is because she looks so much like Queen Catelyn. Her face is a bitter reminder.

Jon reminded Sansa of Domeric, of all people, last night… up until he touched her.

She’d been growing comfortable, too comfortable with him until that clasp of her hand. Absurd, really. He’d held her hand and her waist the night before when they danced. But she was on guard then. That moment last night was more intimate.

Sansa tries to look at it objectively. Really, what was wrong with it? They are to be wed in a moon’s turn.

He took her hand with one that had killed her father. That’s what was wrong.

Had he forgotten? She hadn’t. She couldn’t. But part of her almost wanted to last night, and she can’t forgive herself for that. 

For pity’s sake, she’s only been here two days. If there was ever any better proof that she’d be a dismal Queen of Winter: it’s this.

Father’s bones were brought back to Winterfell to be buried in the crypts. She saw the skeleton: skull clearly and concisely severed from the spine. Her bridegroom did that.

A kind letter (that was likely dictated to him) and a pleasant party aside, how he treats Rhaenys could only be… how he treats Rhaenys. And there are things expected of Sansa that he clearly does not expect of his sister.

At least, from what she’s seen. It could be a different story behind closed doors. He  _ is  _ a Targaryen, after all. For all that Rhaenys seem well-adjusted, clever, kind, and content, Sansa knows better than to judge on first impressions alone. 

Maybe he is as gentle as he appears. But he’s also been raised in a family based on collecting women like porcelain vases or wildflowers. With an uncle who casually refers to his own sister as a ‘slut.’

What if he doesn’t even know any better?

There are men like that, she knows. As Dauphin, she was tasked with trying criminals. And sometimes, there would be rapers brought before her who genuinely believed they’d done no wrong. He didn’t beat her, so it wasn’t rape. She laid perfectly still, like a board, putting up no fight. She was a whore. She wasn’t a virgin. She only cried a little. He didn’t actually probe her cunny. He was willing to wed her to restore her honor. So it wasn’t rape.  _ It wasn’t rape.  _

Jon seems incapable of rape, but so have many of the men she’s sentenced to the Wall.

Some of them, once Sansa explained to them  _ why  _ it was, in fact, rape, actually seemed stunned and horrified. Some of them, once they understood, wept and pleaded for forgiveness. Once, a weeping youth even asked to be gelded so he could never do it again.

How would a man, raised to believe himself the rightful ruler and owner of an entire continent, brought up by a father who collected women, see his betrothed, logically? Or, rather, whatever passed as ‘logically’ to a Targaryen.

Last night, she was plagued by nightmares. In them, he didn’t even  _ realize… _

In her dreams, he was commanding her to undress, thinking nothing of it, using a threat, perhaps. Not of physical harm, of course,  _ never _ … but something else. 

Him grabbing her and holding her still. Taking care not to bruise her. Possibly even stroking her, trying to arouse her, quieting her protests with kisses, stopping her struggle with firm, but gentle hands. Kissing her palms and fingers when she slaps him. Making sure she’s wet before slowly entering her. Telling her she’s beautiful. Maybe even saying he loves her. Maybe even believing it. Being gentle, ever so gentle as he ignores her will entirely. 

Drying her tears when he’s finished. Trying to comfort her. Telling her that it’s alright, because they’ll be wed in a moon’s turn. This way, she may already have his heir inside her when the wedding comes, and won’t that be wonderful? She’ll be mother to the next King of Westeros now. And it’s not like she was a virgin anyways…

Grey eyes, so much like the father he killed, always  _ gentle. _

Lord Bolton, Domeric’s father, had a soft touch and voice, but eyes like a demon. He was cruel, brutal, and ruthless. Jon seems to be none of those things, but Sansa isn’t sure how much of that is a mask or his resemblance to King Eddard. Domeric was kind, gentle, and true. 

Some called her Dom a coward, for he wasn’t on the front lines as often as other men his age. But when he wasn’t serving at court, he was personally delivering cavalry steads to the battlefields and war campaigns. No one knew or understood horses like Domeric. Uncle Benjen said her lover’s skill was even greater than Aunt Lyanna’s. Her aunt had been Mistress of the Horse at one time, and was described as being half-horse herself. Arya was like that. Benjen would sometimes blink back tears watching Sansa’s sister, saying she was like his own lost sister come again.

Now, Sansa is dining with Lyanna’s son. The son of her aunt’s rape. Though it is clear that Jon does not see it that way. Since their brief exchange of sharp words on the matter at the banquet, Sansa’s purposely avoided any reminder or discussion of her aunt. Lyanna never even entered the Red Keep, having been sequestered in a tower in the Dornish Marches when pregnant with Jon. But even if she had been at court, Sansa isn’t sure she can stomach hearing the Targaryen narrative surrounding what happened to her aunt. The Targaryens seem to frame it as a love story. Or something close, at least. The thought makes her ill.

Those are the stories her betrothed was raised on.

_ He won’t rape me,  _ she tells herself, almost completely certain of it.  _ Not tonight. But what of the other nights? On our wedding night, it won’t even be rape in the eyes of the law. _

She doesn’t want to open up her feelings or legs to him: he killed her father. She doesn’t want to encourage him. She doesn’t want to betray Domeric. She wants to go home. But she’s to have a life with him instead and she simply doesn’t know what to do. 

_ If Jon forces himself on me, at least Father’s not alive to see it.  _ With that thought, Sansa bursts into tears. Jeyne takes her into her arms.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Sansa babbles, “I was  _ fine  _ just last night…”

“You are  _ not!”  _ Wylla rounds the partition to look at her, holding a selection of satin ribbons. “And you  _ weren’t.  _ You were trying to make the best of things.”

“I was happy to dine with him this evening last night, though.”

“You’re allowed to change your mind.”

“But I have to be decisive!” She insists, miserable. She remembers her training.  _ A Dauphin can have doubts, but a Dauphin must still act with conviction. There is no time dithering. The whole kingdom waits upon your choices. _

_...Oh. Oh right. _

She’s not going to be Dauphin anymore. In reality, she almost certainly isn’t now, not really. She clings to her title, of course, but she is not guiding her country now. There are no documents on the Winter Kingdom’s affairs at her desk. She has no court to preside over. No edicts to draft. It makes her feel adrift. Perhaps that is why she’s so scatterbrained.

What kingdom waits on her choices? Now choices are made for her.

Except for what to wear, of course. So far, she gets some choice in that. Not a full choice, of course. The king already asked her to wear more southern styles once. She’ll be expected to continue doing so, most likely. Gowns can be altered. Gowns will be altered.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Jon:

As he awaits her, he paces. Last night’s departure had been awkward, and he’s still not entirely sure why. It’s not that he can’t think of a reason --- he can think of countless ones. But he’s not sure which. Jon orders that the princess’s favorite foods be prepared for supper, and he makes sure to look his best. He was never much of a clothes horse before, but since becoming king he’s developed a greater understanding and appreciation for the sartorial arts. A king’s clothing sends a message. 

While he would normally be comfortable in worn, supple leathers and basic wools and linens, for a king to wear such things outside of the most casual and private activities denotes poverty and/or lack of confidence, which he cannot afford. He’s not the first king to preside over a crown in debt, as it turns out.

Some of his predecessors left behind journals. While some volumes, such as the published autobiography of Jaehaerys I, have been available to the public for centuries; many more private accounts are locked away and kept from all eyes but the Grand Maester and whoever holds the throne. Economics in Westeros is temperamental, to say the least. 

One interesting thing his predecessors have taught him, though, that it is one thing to have financial difficulties. Those can be resolved. The one thing a king truly cannot afford is letting the world know of said difficulties. 

Such challenges can be overcome by the shrewd and carefully employed strength, prestige, and power of the crown. But if the crown is known to be penniless and therefore, vulnerable, well… 

While dressing like a soldier was all well and good for a second son, the “pauper” costume on a king meant he was struggling and weak.

Of course, he cannot afford to be an utter dandy, either. Too much extravagance either denoted overcompensation or a weak character prone to hedonism and superficiality. Or both.

One had to strike a balance. So Jon’s clothes are now of richer fabrics, but he keeps to mostly Targaryen black with subtle bursts of color, subdued embroidery. Too much severity can be alienating.

An odd development occurred when he started dressing as a king: Rhaenys, Elia, and Sam all remarked upon him developing a “sense of style.” It was never something he really aspired to, but he found the compliments extremely flattering all the same.

Princess Sansa has style, that much is true. It’s a Northern, different sort of fashion, but she wears it well. Jon almost regrets asking her to don the southern mode of dress for her welcome banquet, though she adapted surprisingly well and wore her altered gown as confidently as she did the northern one she donned for her arrival in the city.

He imagines it’s not too hard to be elegant when a person possesses such beauty, though. 

It is and was the same with many in his family. With Father, the famed ‘Silver Prince’, Aegon, his Silver Heir, Daenerys and her ethereal beauty, Aenys, even Viserys has the eye-catching Valyrian looks. Elia and Rhaenys possess their striking, exotic Dornish looks. The Lannisters have their golden glory, save for The Imp. Jon always feels like a buzzard in a field of peacocks and swans. 

It had always been bad enough that he was half-Winterman, but he also  _ looked it.  _ He inherited the Arryn Stark coloring and profile of his mother. While people said Lyanna Arryn Stark was a beauty, Jon doesn’t feel he inherited it. His face is long and surly, his dark brown hair is shaggy and hard to tame, his eyes a bleak brown. 

Rhaenys and Aegon came from rebel blood as well, but the Dornish always possessed a certain glamour and sensuality. There is something inherently romantic about the swarthy, free-spirited, exotic people of that fierce desert kingdom. 

The Wintermen, though? They are seen as heathens and mutts. Violent, stubborn, cold snobs who worship trees, carry out barbaric practices, and call themselves ‘hearty’ and ‘noble.’ Most of Jon’s exposure to the people of his mother’s homeland were the foul-mouthed, burly, unrelenting soldiers he encountered in the field. Rumours and legends about the Wintermen spoke of mutilation, of congress with animals, rape, strange tree ceremonies, terrifying sky cells, and dark magic. One of the most powerful Houses in the Winter Kingdom had a flayed man for their sigil. That wasn’t just a design, either. 

Many remarks were made, mostly by Viserys and the Lannisters, about how he “looked like an enemy.”

The Wintermen, especially those from the far North like the Arryn-Starks, also followed the Old Gods. This was once brought up by Cersei Lannister, who questioned the validity of the marriage between Rhaegar and the “heathen” Lyanna. Father had a short talk with his fourth wife about that and the matter was dropped, but it always hung over Jon.

Even the whirlwind tragedy of Jon’s origins had its inherent romance overshadowed by the war it ushered. There was no glamor, no romance to the Winter Kingdom.

Or so he thought. 

Honestly, when he met Robb Arryn Stark, he was surprised by how handsome the man was. Jon had expected someone who looked like him: not the auburn-haired, blue-eyed, powerfully-built young man he encountered. Of course, off the battlefield, the King of Winter proved exceptionally stupid. And when Jon arranged to wed the “beauty” Princess Sansa, he expected that the portrait he received was an exaggeration and that she would merely prove pretty by the standards of what he assumed were the universally mannish women of the North. 

But no. 

There are tragically few redheads in King’s Landing, Jon reflects as his betrothed enters his solar, flanked by Lady Wylla and Lady Jeyne. Princess Sansa’s rich autumn locks are set off by the v-necked emerald velvet and white satin she wears. Her hair is pulled back loosely and arranged in a braid that circles about the back of her head. It makes him miss how her hair had been the night before, in a single, loose ponytail. 

Jon moves to bow and kiss his betrothed’s hand. It quivers slightly.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I was hoping for a private dinner?” He remarks. “I arranged for two to dine.”

Sansa purses her lips for a moment. “Of course. My ladies will be right outside the door.”

She nods to them, and they hesitate before curtseying and departing. 

Jon makes sure to pull her chair out for her, pour her wine, observe all the niceties. When he is finally seated, he asks about the departure of Lady Beth. She thanks him for the guards and litters. “Beth enjoyed it greatly.”

The king nods, pleased. “I’m only sorry that you had to say goodbye to one of your ladies so quickly.”

“It’s my own fault. I never should have brought her in the first place.”

Jon did think the lass a tad young, but he doesn’t offer an opinion, only a shrug. “If her absence leaves you wanting for service or companionship, you need only say the word and I’m sure we can find a lady at court to fill her position.”

“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”

It does raise a point, though. One he’s hesitant to bring up at this moment. But then, he can’t stall the matter, either.

“When you become High Queen, you will of course require a larger household. You may wish to start looking over potential candidates. I’m sure my stepmother and sister would be happy to aid you in this. Tell me, have you toured the High Queen’s chambers yet?”

Sansa delicately swallows a mouthful of duck in plum sauce and wipes her mouth. “I have not, Your Grace. I must admit that I feel some awkwardness about surveying them.”

“Why is that?” The rooms are famously opulent and comfortable. Elia spoke of how much she’d enjoyed redecorating and modeling the chambers for her use when Father took the throne.

“Because they belonged to High Queen Elia for over two decades. I do not take much pleasure in the thought of displacing a good woman of fragile health.”

“Elia began moving to the Widowvault moons ago,” Jon replies, surprised, “It is the customary tradition, and she is fine with it. I assure you that she bears you no ill will.”

But this seems unsatisfactory. Jon thinks. “Perhaps you should have a private meeting with my step-mother, to get formally acquainted and have her reassure you.” He recalls his conversation with Elia the day prior. “It’s about time the two of you meet anyways. You will likely have much to discuss. I myself often seek out Her Grace’s counsel and find it comforting and helpful.”

“Yes, I would like to meet her. Though I thought it best to await her invitation.”

Jon observes her curiously. She seems nervous.

“Your Excellency, are you well?”

She takes a half second too long to answer. “Relatively, Your Grace. I am merely having some issues adjusting to the climate here in King’s Landing, I think.”

Jon can tell she’s talking about more than the weather. But he’s not entirely sure how he should pursue that, if indeed he should at all. “Yes, I imagine it must be difficult indeed. If there’s anything I can do to assist you in that, please let me know. I want you to be happy and comfortable.”

What he wants to say is,  _ I would really, really like to make this work. You’re lovely and clever and compassionate and I am happy to be marrying you. I believe I could love you, in fact. And if we could have a happy marriage, I believe I could truly get used to this ‘king’ thing. Even be good at it, if I had the support of a loving wife like you. But you’re afraid.  _

“That is kind of you, but I am sure the king has more important matters to occupy his time.”

“Your happiness is my happiness. My happiness is the realm’s.” Jon bites his lip for a moment and swallows. “If you’d let me, Princess, I believe I could make you happy.”

He begins to reach across the table to take her hand. Their eyes meet. And he’s a hair away from contact when she rises, knocking her chair back. Tears begin to fall.

“ _Why?! Why did you kill him?!_ _How could you?!_ He was a good, righteous, loving man with a family who loved him! A family he loved! He was your blood! Your uncle! You were raised with an uncle like Viserys, who would slit your throat first chance he gets, who has no wife, no children, no one he cares for but himself, no one who needs him. But you meet the uncle who would never, ever hurt you, a man with a wife, children, and a country who loved and needed him, and you kill him! He loved you, even though you’d personally directed the slaughter of so many good Wintermen, even though you were raised as a Targaryen, even though he never met you! I know it was war, but you could have taken him prisoner! You could have let him go! You could have let us have the hope of seeing him again! But you took that from us! Why?! _Why did you take him from us?_ ”

Jon clutches the armrests of his chair tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. For a moment, he thinks it is Aegon’s ghost yelling at him. But it is not. It definitely is not. There it is. 

He’s thought a great deal on Eddard Arryn Stark’s death since that day. Mostly in regards to kinslaying and Aegon’s sacrifice. But this aspect of it - that the man was the Father of his bride, well…

He’s been doing his best not to think on it too much. Especially since Sansa arrived. Because he doesn’t have much to say that could possibly comfort either of them. What can he do or say? King Eddard is never coming back.

Jon does have an answer to her question, though. “He killed my brother.”

“Did he?” Sansa demands. “Did he personally take his blade and sever your brother’s neck from his shoulders, as you did to Father? Did Father seek him out and decapitate him? Or did your brother just fall in battle, losing out in the risk he’d taken dozens of times before when he went into battle? Was it by my father’s hand, personally?”

“I…. No,” he admits. Aegon was thrown from his horse, then was beaten by a Northern commander in single combat. “But your father was coming to take me, abduct me. That’s why Aegon was there that day and I wasn’t. King Eddard was happy to kill my brother, even if he didn’t do it with his own hands.”

“No! That’s absurd!”

Jon grows angry. What does she know of war? “He would have-”

“-No! Shut up!” She looks furious. “Father never would have killed Aegon, he would have prevented his death if he could.”

“And how can you know that?!” Jon demands, now rising himself. He’s so sick of the narrative of the perfectly honorable Northern king. He’s seen the honor of Northern kings. He’s lost his brother to one.

“You said so yourself, you fool!” Sansa replies. “My father wanted to retrieve you and bring you to Winterfell. Well, how better to do that than  _ capture and ransom  _ his enemy’s heir?! He bore your brother no ill will, he wanted his sister’s son back! I guarantee you that if my father had  _ actually  _ encountered Aegon on the field, he’d have taken him and returned him to your father unharmed. For you.”

“Taking me from my family and everything I’ve ever known!” Jon replies, exasperated.

“ _ You mean the way you’ve done to me?!” _

His mouth goes dry. This… This doesn’t make sense.

“You’re a princess,” he says, “You were-”

“ _ -No! I was never meant to leave my home!”  _ She shuts her eyes and turns away. “And unlike you, I had a family who loved me. I didn’t have ambitious, grasping uncles and half-siblings breathing down my neck and plotting my demise. I wasn’t being raised by a raper!”

“My father loved my mother!” Jon shouts, shaking.

“I’m sure that’s what he told you. He stole her away, isolated her from her entire family with no means of contact, did nothing when her own father and brother were roasted alive, rode off to kill yet more of her family. And you call that  _ love?!” _

“Maybe she wanted to leave! Did you ever consider that?!”

“So you think your mother wanted her family and people to die? Is that your argument?” Sansa turns, arms crossed about her chest. “Lyanna would have known what her disappearance would lead to: war. Death. Suffering. You think your mother so heartless? Or was it completely justified because it was in pursuit of  _ an exalted Valyrian Prince?! _ Was warming his bed a vocation worth the ocean of blood that would result?”

“I…” Jon steps back, lost. She has a point. But she’s still wrong. So wrong. He pictures his father at his harp, singing and playing one of the many, many songs he composed for his late wife over the years. When Rhaegar died, Jon comforted himself thinking that at least now his father could play those songs for Mother in person. “My father  _ loved  _ my mother.”

“He stole her away from everyone who loved her!”

“And what about you?!” Jon demands, inspiration hitting him. “What about your  _ lover?!  _ Didn’t this… This… Bolton lord steal  _ you  _ away from  _ your  _ family?!”

“My brother had sold me off to you! He was going to separate me from my home!”

“In order to secure peace!” Jon points out, almost laughing. “You went with him knowing full well war could break out and you still went. Doesn’t that make you  _ heartless?!” _

“Maybe, if I believed even for a moment that peace would be honored!” She spits. “You think I’m stupid, Targaryen? Nothing has ever stopped you lizards from going back on your word and trying to devour our country! How many peace treaties have you all broken over the years? You’ve been laying siege to our borders for centuries! You think I haven’t seen those hideous beasts your aunt has hatched? You think I  _ don’t know what that means?! _ The only difference me being here does is render my idiot brother complacent long enough for you to grow them big enough to roast our country and give you a hostage and potential claim to the Winter Kingdom. War is inevitable, and a waiting period at this point saves no one.”

Jon’s jaw drops. He’s speechless again. The worst part is, she’s not entirely wrong. Is she? Jon knew going into this that war would break out again, but only because… well… that’s what always happens. Not because he intends to conquer the Winter Kingdom, necessarily. But he does want to render the North unsuspecting and complacent in time for their forces to replenish and the dragons to grow. And yes, having Sansa here is a safety measure to keep her brother from acting rashly. But for whatever reason, Jon’s always pictured the inevitable return to war as something that would be started by another, not by him.

He grew up in the age of the War for Lyanna. Not conquest. 

_ Potential claim to the Winter Kingdom. _

_ Shit. _

She’s not exactly wrong about that, either, is she? Not that he intended it, but… Women can inherit the throne in the Winter Kingdom more easily than in the South. The female line does count. Jon is technically an Arryn Stark through his mother, and his children with Sansa will be through Jon’s mother  _ and  _ their mother. 

The fact that his children would technically have more Winter blood than Valyrian was brought up to him, of course. But only in that context, by critics of the match wishing to conserve the “purity” of the bloodline. He’d not even considered this in terms of claims. In his world, female claims only matter if there are literally no men left. 

This was  _ never  _ his intention! He’d never use his children so!

“Let me remind you,” he says angrily, “That the only reason we’re marrying is because your brother jilted my sister! If I’d gotten what I wanted in the first place, there’d be no claim brought into my line beyond the one I already possess! Any  _ claim  _ our children might have are a result of  _ your brother’s  _ decisions, not mine! So why don’t you think before blithering about  _ our  _ lack of honor! Last time I checked, it was  _ Winter  _ armies marching towards  _ our  _ capital, not the other way around!”

She’s silent, stony-faced. Jon sits again, almost proud of himself, but mostly troubled. Uncomfortable thoughts and feelings bubble within him. She’s not won this, but neither has he. 

Finally, she speaks. “What children do you expect us to have, exactly? You think I’d welcome the touch of a man other than the one I love? Of  _ my father’s killer?! _ ”

Jon shuts his eyes. He feels dirty. “Maybe.” 

She gasps. “What kind of sick world do you live in, where you think women could want men who hurt and kill the ones they love?”

“A Targaryen one,” Jon replies with a miserable laugh. It’s the correct answer. He swallows. “...Killing your father is my greatest regret, Princess. That is not a lie. I am not merely saying that to placate you-”

“-Why should I believe that?”

“Because the biggest source of regret over that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my brother.”

When he recounts the story of Aegon’s sacrifice to her, it’s almost like he’s listening to someone else explain it. Like he’s outside his body as his tongue speaks for him.

“I became a kinslayer and betrayed Aegon’s sacrifice for me. And I’m still trying to forgive myself for that alone. And… Yes, right before I brought my blade down, I saw it in your father’s eyes. He loved me. And I regret that as well. I regret letting vengeance drive my actions, for that is not the man I want to be. And now, I regret it even more because I hurt you. And I truly am sorry for that.”

“If you truly care for my feelings, you’d release me from this marriage and sign a treaty promising my country unconditional peace, renouncing all claims or intent of conquest.”

“I would,” he agree, staring down the table, “Except there’s something I care about even more: The peace and stability of my own kingdom and safety of my family. I do that and I guarantee you, Viserys would have our heads on pikes by dawn. The lords of this realm would see that as weakness and surrender, and will not accept that from their king. I’d be overthrown and faction would go against faction. Viserys. Aenys. Joffrey. Lannisters versus Hightowers versus who knows who else. Civil war would erupt and everyone I know and love will likely die. I care about your feelings, but my kingdom takes priority. If protecting everything and everyone I know requires me to do some things I’m not proud of, then that’s how it must be. Even if it’s temporary, I need peace. And for that, I need you. I’m sorry.”

“And heirs.”

“I’m sorry?” He asks, looking up at her again. Her face is bitter, angry, miserable.

“You need me, and heirs.”

“Well, yes, that is one of the points of a marriage.”

Her eyes narrow. “So it’s certainly futile to try and resist.”

More tears fall and Jon realizes what she’s getting at. His breath hitches and he jumps to his feet. “No! I would never-”

“-Wouldn’t you?” 

Jon clenches his fists. “I would  _ not. Never! _ ”

“What about after the wedding, when I am officially your property?” Sansa demands.

“No!” Jon pushes his chair aside, rounds the corner, and walks up close to her. “Princess, look at me, please.”

She raises her head reluctantly. 

Jon takes a deep breath and makes the easiest statement of this evening. “I swear to you, I would never, ever force myself upon you, lay an unwanted hand upon you, or use you in such a manner. I intend to keep peace by preventing the rise of Joffrey or Viserys, I do not intend to become them in the process. You are  _ safe  _ with me, no matter what happens.”


End file.
